Of Lead and Silver, Second Draft
by Color Me Gray
Summary: Did you love this story the first time around? Did you hate it? Either way, please come in and see the renovations! Please be kind, ... rewind? OH! Review. Yes, please review. Ch.12: Into the Gray
1. Of Looking and Leaping

**Chapter One: Looking and Leaping**

_Late 1880's

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**Leah**

My eyes seemed to possess volition of their own.

They had spent the last two and a half hours examining and cataloguing the sights and sounds of the giant beast around me. I say beast, because it was truly alive. Humming and breathing and dancing to some wordless tune that far surpassed anything I had yet encountered in my small life, the Opera Garnier pulsed with excitement. Granted, fifteen years aren't really a great span of time, but that was the last thing on my mind. I was still in a state of shock at achieving the one dream my heart had ever wanted. My future seemed like a well-plotted map, lined with practices, recitals, operas and stardom. It was all I could do not to burst out into song.

I refrained from acting upon my less than intelligent urge, if only out of respect for any life form in the near vicinity. And the two people in front of me were the last on earth that I would want to embarrass. I knew that my vocal skills would never impress anyone, but I was very sure of the skill in my feet. If it weren't for that, I would never have gotten within a hundred yards of the massive building we were traipsing about.

Lost in thought, I hardly noticed that they had turned down another of the Opera House's many halls. As I ran to catch up, Henry caught my wrist. Puzzled and a bit upset at being delayed, I shot my brother an angry glare. He only smiled, and silently pointed behind me. I nearly fell over backwards! I had stopped just inches from a collision with the backside of one M Debienne, whose arm was occupied by my mother. With his characteristic 'older-brother-I-told-you-so' expression, Henry shot me another smug grin. I couldn't help but laugh.

Continuing at a leisurely pace, the two adults finally managed to turn their conversation in the direction I had been waiting for. We were approaching the main dance studio. Nervously, I considered the fact that the Opera was already two weeks into its winter season. Slowly, my confidence in my talents began to plummet. What if I couldn't learn the routines in time? Would I be expelled from the dance conservatory? Never be on stage?

The humble pine door gave a little squeal before admitting the four of us to the studio. The mirror-lined walls were dotted with dancers in various stages of warming up. I scanned the room for any girls my age. Several older boys were practicing a simple partnered dance. The natural grace of their partners did nothing to ease my anxieties. A small group of younger children awkwardly imitated them from a safe distance.

Panic began to coat my stomach. By nature I was a very social creature, and my natural tendency to worry worked its hook into the newest crack in my armor. What happened to my joy and resolve to be brave? This morning, I was so sure I wouldn't have any reason to worry. Now I couldn't help but wonder if there would be no one to talk to here. Would I spend all my free time alone? I enjoyed the time I often spent alone with a good book, but I knew that I needed some one to befriend and tell stories with.

Just as I had approached despair, the answer to my unspoken prayer materialized before my desperate eyes. Having caught a shiver of movement, my gaze reverted to a darker corner of the hall that I had overlooked. A small group of groggy young women had taken shelter there from the brilliant sunlight streaming in the massive windows, filtered only by the light snowfall.

The warm glow threw their faces into sharp relief with the shade. One of the smallest was readjusting her practice tulle with the assistance of a second dancer. The faded jewel tone of the red skirt cast a pink glow onto the elder girl's beige leotard and added a hint of rose to both of their cheeks. The younger of the two seemed impatient to be free of the auburn haired girl's attentions, chatting freely with a number of the group despite the age difference of three or four years.

Her attendant, one of the senior members of the flock, wore a look of long suffering patience and mild annoyance as her efforts were comically thwarted by the excited gestures that accompanied the child's conversations. Sisters, I observed. There was only a trace of family resemblance, but even I could sense the free and easy mood between them.

The elder sibling, having finished with the petite blond beside her, turned to speak to several other ballerinas roughly the same age as I. I immediately felt a strange eagerness to meet these girls, and found myself most intrigued by the pair of nameless sisters.

A bit tired, they clustered together while warming up, murmuring gently among themselves as they stretched out sleeping limbs. The first image they conjured in my mind was that of a group of delicate hens or exotic water foul. Even half awake, each girl seemed to positively exude an air of confidence, grace, and poise.

By comparison, I immediately felt gawky and awkward. Shyness and worry did a tumultuous battle in the bottom of my stomach with the urge to run over and introduce myself. I was quite sure that my intestines had just admitted a small swarm of butterflies.

Very frisky butterflies.

Habitually, I glanced at my reflection in the nearest mirror in order to set myself to rights. I first assessed my hair. My scalp relished in its temporary freedom from my trademark snood, the easiest form of restraint for the disobedient mop God had chosen to curse me with. I often wished for other girls' tidy straight hair or beautiful curls, but mine seemed incapable of choosing, preferring instead to be limply wavy. Early this morning, I had asked Nana to undertake one of the more complicated updo's that I had seen at the Yule Ball, in an effort to disguise its normal unruliness. The tiny braids had taken hours, but I had been very pleased with the elegance it afforded my normally fly away tresses. By some miracle, the sleek wings of dark, brackish-brown had remained intact. Perhaps God had truly heard my earnest prayers about today.

My inquiry next traveled to my face, though there wasn't much use wishing for more handsome features. My mildly blemished skin had cooperated somewhat with my attempts at staving off its usual imperfections, bearing only a handful of red marks. My nose had never quite been of a fashionable Grecian form, a fate that I lamented. My lips always seemed too large for my face, but what could be done for that? My eyes were my least attractive feature, being the cold gray color of marble most often used for fireplaces and tombstones.

Having long ago given up the lost cause of my appearance, I steeled myself for this all-important first meeting. Nagging worries reechoed off the sides of my head. I had never been very 'good with people', especially strangers, and had never had an actual pillow friend. I mentally scolded myself with the reminder that this would be a fresh start.

I paused in my flight to cast a quick glance in my mother's direction. A small whispering voice in me vainly wished that she were watching me like a falcon, ready to swoop down from on high and bar my way. Had she noticed, she would have scolded me for lowering myself so publicly. She was engrossed in conversation with M Debienne and a stern-looking woman who was perhaps ten years the senior of my mother's girlish thirty-three.

My movement did not go unnoticed by all of my mother's small party. The authoritative woman caught me with a shrewd, investigative gaze that sharply commanded my attention. I felt as though the woman was taking me apart like a clock maker examining a clock. Her eyes were methodically removing my pretenses and tinkering with my gears.

Slightly intimidated, I refused to be out done. '_Two can play at that game.'_ I began to mentally catalogue what I could observe of her, attempting to look unaffected and drawing myself up to my full, if insubstantial, height. A slim, well-toned woman, she dwarfed me by at least five inches. Trim and self-possessed, the angles of her body and face were not sharp, but precisely cut. A neat coil of deep bronze hair regally crowned her head. She wore a simple, but well made outfit of an almond wool skirt and a crisp lavender blouse. A small cameo at her throat was her only adornment, and she carried a formidable looking cane.

If she saw the challenge in my eyes, she responded only with a slightly raised eyebrow. I caught a quick touch of emotion in her eyes and the corners of her mouth, but I was at a loss for pining down what it was. Irritation? Indifference? Amusement? Approval?

Without so much as my mother's "by your leave", the woman indicated in no uncertain terms that I was to follow her. Simply a quick flick of the wrist and she strode purposefully out of the room.

Double-checking the laces of my soft, well broken slippers, I grabbed what courage I had and locked the sheepish beast in a strangle hold.

Keeping my irritation in check, I stumbled to keep up. Attempting to unravel her identity proved to be a fruitless mental endeavor while nearly jogging to match her pace.

The race abruptly halted, and for the second time that day, I found myself nearly embedded in someone's backside. Indifferent to her near peril, my would-be victim calmly unlocked a less noisy door to reveal the theater's practice hall. As I opened my mouth to speak, I was silenced by the cultured yet unfamiliar accent that graced the voice of the dark-eyed woman before me.

"I am Madame Giry, the Maitre de Corps of the Opera House. You are to give me an audition, no?"

I was at a loss for words. I would never have thought the head ballet mistress to be someone so…plain. I had always pictured her as a rich, affectionate woman who would run in the elite circles and would be my second mother. As though she had found a back entrance to my thoughts, she gave me a slight yet encouraging smile.

"Mademoiselle? Are you ready?"

It was not a question.

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Three hours and several strained muscles later, the audition concluded. Bathed in sweat, I could not remember ever having worked so hard in my life. This Madame Giry was most definitely a ballet mistress. She had coaxed my skills further than I had known they could go, only speaking for a few minutes now and then. Already she had corrected several long-term technical errors and I had found myself leaping higher than ever and keeping time more precisely. I pensively waited for her to break the pressing silence.

I had also discovered Madame's talent for inspiration. A deep-seated part of me wanted nothing more that to please her and not embarrass myself in her eyes. After several minutes of cooling down and stretching out, she was ready to answer my unspoken question.

"Well done, very well done. Much better than I had expected."

I couldn't contain my glee.

"Thank you so much…"

"That is not to say your performance was without fault. We will have much to do if you are to take part in the next production. In the mean time, you will continue to stretch for five minutes and afterwards you will come into my office. Take the third stairs on the left down four floors. You will find me at the third door to your right. Do you understand?"

I could barely squeak out a respectful "Oui Madame" before she swept out of the hall.

Collapsing in a happy pile of exhausted jubilation, I finally let loose the urge I had kept in check sense early that morning. I began to sing a wordless tune that my Abuela had taught me before she gave up all hope of teaching me to sing. My voice had never been very strong, and I had a very limited range, but on occasion I found singing to be an excellent outlet for my often unexpressed emotions.

In private of course.

The sensation of being appraised suddenly returned, intruding upon my peaceful solitude and literally paralyzing me. There was someone watching me, and while I was very disturbed by the sensation, I felt unable to leave. The eyes boring into my back couldn't have been more different from Madame Giry's. Where she had removed a bit of stage paint, this examination went far deeper. This gaze was peeling away my skin and watching my heart beat.

Counting in time to the pulsing rhythm of the blood in my veins.

Starting out of my stupor, I realized that I had been alone in the practice hall for several minutes. Hurrying to catch up to my new instructor, I bolted out the stage door.

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_**Authoress's Notes:**  
♪ I was very dissatisfied with the first draft of 'Of Lead And Silver', so me, myself and Carlos (my guitar) decided to do some revisions. (Duh, self, they probably figured that out from the title!) Granted, this is far from the finished version, but I've done a lot of cutting and pasting, and detail revisions. I hope this comes out better the second time around… So any who, leave your comments and tell me what you thought. Good, bad, packing material? _

_ ♫Oh, and Fish? Don't worry about Madame G. being solely movie based. While I am rather partial to ALW's music, I'm not the biggest fan of his plotline. It leaves a lot to be desired. His revamp of Giry was one of the few quirks that I did enjoy, though. But worry not! Let's just say that you'll get your share of Leroux style Mme. Giry (complete with indignant feathers). Just maybe not the way you might have expected…Antz in your pants dear! _

_ ♪A pillow friend is an old fashioned term for the special kind of best friend that you can share everything with. Comes from the idea of 'pillow talk' (and not in a sexual way) of sharing whispered secrets with someone before you go to sleep._

_♫In ALW's musical, the opera house is refered to as 'the populaire'. In real life, the paris opera house at the time of Leroux's novel was called 'the Garnier', after its cheif archectect. It is a beautiful building, and if you get the chance, do a little reaserch on the place. It will really make the Phantom story come alive for you once you can picture the settings.  
_


	2. What is Spoken Here

_My appologies for not having updated sooner! Please forgive the forgetful authoress, and she shall bake you cheesecake. (Come on now, there's not a single one of you who isn't tempted by my cheesecake ... is there?) Any who, the next chapter shall be longer and a quicker update as well._

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Chapter Two: What Is Spoken Here

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**Leah**

I was halted abruptly in my flight by a human mass on the landing of the third stair.

For a dancer, I was unbelievably clumsy. As I staggered backwards, I mentally berated myself. Of all the stupid things! Fate had finally won the upper hand it had been straining for all day. I clutched my forearm to stem the bright red flow that rushed from a small abrasion. Seeing the stain on my favorite bodice, a forbidden curse word began to bloom on my lips.

"Merde!"

"**_Leah Isabella Milagros de Castillo_**!"

My full name rolled smoothly off the lips of the only person able to utter it so quickly.

"Mama!" was all I could manage to choke out.

I couldn't think of anything more embarrassing to have happened in front of the small group below me.

Bowing my head in shame, I closed my eyes, attempting to rid myself of the image burned into them. Pudgy Monsieur Debbine stood motionless and gape-faced while Madame Giry took a stunned step backwards, very near to collision with the true aim of my vision. Mama was livid, full of all the righteous wrath of a thunderstorm.

I wanted to die.

A soft sound snapped my head to attention. It was impossible! No one would possibly be…

Laughing.

He was laughing at me! That overgrown, moon-eyed schoolboy was actually _laughing_ at me! Just the softest of chuckling, but his face revealed the true extent of his emotion, turning a shade of red to rival my own.

How dare he! To think I had felt sorry for him! It was one thing to converse so familiarly with my mother, but now he had forgotten his place. Didn't he know who I was? Who my family was? I was Leah de Castillo, granddaughter of Don Fernando Castillo! Who was he to mock me? A second-class Parisian businessman! Did he think that being my brother's father gave him license to act as mine?

I longed for Mama to notice his insult, and as I waited for her swift anger, I imagined how wonderful it would be to hear her call him down for mocking me. My heart thrilled at the impractical hope that she might defend me, as any other mother would defend her injured child.

The soft rustle of skirts cut my heavenly daydream all too short.

Immediately, my joy vanished, and I descended to earth in a blast of cold reality. My mother stood looking down at me, full of all the righteous wrath of a thunderstorm. Debbine remained a step below her, still restrainedly red. Mama was aggravatingly oblivious to the insult.

For once, her eyes were for me alone, but in a manner very different than the one I often prayed for. The blue-clad figure below me emanated disappointment and a nearly tangible command of silence. I started to hang my head in shame once again, hugging my arms closer to my body, but found myself interrupted by a cool hand near my own.

Startled, I looked up to find Madame Giry inspecting my cut. In painful contrast to Mama's reactions, my unintentional victim seemed content merely to examine her newest dancer instead of rebuking me.

I appraised her person quickly, and was thankful to see she looked completely unfazed by either my stupidity or my tongue. The only visible injury was to her polished black cane, which now sported red ornamentation. Apparently, the wicked looking stick had been the cause of my injury.

"_Her cane and my foolish actions"_, I thought ashamedly.

I was near to bursting, full of so many opposing emotions. Surprise at Madame's concern for me after I had run headlong into her. Mortification that this woman, who I now had such respect for, should see me in such a state of weakness. Fading traces of anger harbored against Monsieur D. for his fun at my expense. Self-disgust for having so shamed and embarrassed my mother. And stupidly, a trace of my earlier fear still remained, a dormant seed of uneasiness. I was now deeply regretting my childish reactions to an imaginary presence.

The undeniable urge to end the repressive silence around us came too quickly for thought. Needing to express how I felt to _someone_, I acted on instinct. I needed to say _something_ to my teacher. The words flew from my mouth before I could think.

"_Los sientos Madame, soy_ –"

"**_Ici on parle francais_**!" Mama addressed me for the second time since we had entered the building. Her mood was not much improved from the first time she had spoken.

I groaned inwardly, knowing that my attempt to quiet the situation had only made things worse. To anyone else, my lapse into speaking Spanish would have passed relatively unnoticed. Paris was not Madrid, but it was a bustling international center, and everyone knew a few phrases in the most common foreign tongues. Most people in Paris wouldn't have batted an eye at hearing three or four different languages spoken in one room, much less a common expression blurted out here or there.

Mama was not most people.

At times it seemed as though she were ashamed her own heritage. I had grown up being taught to embrace my roots while enjoying my country. I was bilingual, speaking both French and Spanish with ease. It was not uncommon for conversations with my Abuelos to be a muddled mixture of the two, for both languages had been spoken to me since infancy.

My mother's desire to cut me off from the language of our family had always been a hotly debated issue in the Castillo household. According to my Abuelo, Mama had 'shaken the rafters' for the first few months of my life, determined to have her way with the subject. My grandparents had flatly refused, wanting me to love their culture as they did. My mother believed that people looked down on mis abuelos for their country of origin. I'm not sure any of us really understood at the time why she felt as she did. I would learn, but the knowledge would be several years in the waiting.

Presently oblivious to her reasons, I could not fathom how anyone could think less of my beloved grandparents. Refined and gentile, they were perfect pictures of titled nobility. Don Fernando Luis and Donna Rosa Milagros were always welcoming and warm with both intimate acquaintances and absolute strangers. Indeed, they were always gracious hosts and generally pleasant people.

Within the confines of my limited circle of family and friends, they were second in importance only to Henry and Mama. Nothing I could think of could explain her strange ideas. Whatever the rationale behind her objections to the language, it had always been made very clear to me that she did not wish for me to use it in her presence.

I sometimes wondered if I had been cursed with a clumsy brain as well as a clumsy nature.

My momentary quiet seemed to have had no effect in the way of calming my mother's irritation. I must have tensed in anticipation of her displeasure, for the next sound I heard was not one of an upbraiding lecture, but Madame's low tone.

"_Il n'y a pas de quoi, Mademoiselle Castillo_"

The gentleness of her voice made a surprising contrast with her previously instructional, matter of fact manner. I felt a rush of relief and a surge of affection for the lady who stood at my side. For a moment I was completely unmindful of the other people in the smooth granite stairwell, thankful and amazed at the luck I must have possessed to find such an insightful and compassionate person in my teacher.

I was abruptly aware of the presence of M Debbine and Mama as the later roughly cleared her throat. Gathering my thoughts like wildfire, I gave my best attempt at a polite reply.

"_Pardonnez-moi Mme., et merci, c'est gentil_."

Finally sensing the tension in the atmosphere, Monsieur D gave his best effort to change the mood of the conversation. (Or lack thereof.)

"Yes, Mme. Giry has told us the good news Leah. Let me be the first to welcome you to the Paris Opera House as a member of the corps!"

He smiled indulgently in my mother's direction, endeavoring to calm her. She gave into his pleasant conversation and they linked arms, chatting while walking towards the stables and signaling the end of my time at the opera. Mme. Giry allowed them ample space and began to follow. A sharp gesture of her wrist was all that was necessary to send me flying to walk silently beside her. With little else to focus on in the already familiar setting of the dim hallways, my attention turned to the pair in front of us.

I could not help but notice Galin's effect on my mother's mood. As his warm smile and comfortable nature charmed away Mama's irritation, I made a mental note to do my best not to ever get angry with him again. Besides, that patient smile was difficult to ignore. And the way he made her eyes sparkle, as though they were radiant sapphires…

Reality's painful and inevitable call had come knocking once again.

This man was not my father, and he never would be! Why couldn't I simply let my childish dreams die? To my great relief, I found that we were nearing the stables. Now I could fix my mind on a less painful topic.

As I was gently handed up into our carriage, I quietly murmured my new teacher a short farewell "Madame, thank you for being so tactful about my clumsiness. _Ma foi_, I will not be so awkward on stage!"

I barely caught the ballet mistress's final words as the coachman softly closed the door behind me.

"Nous Verrons."

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_**Authoress's Notes:**__ ♪__Los sientos Madame, soy: I'm sorry Madame, I am-  
♫__Ici on parle francais: French is spoken here  
♪__Abuelo: grandfather  
♫__Abuelos: grandparents  
♪__Il n'y a pas de quoi, Mademoiselle Castillo: It's not worth speaking of Miss Castillo  
♫__Pardonnez-moi Mme., et merci, c'est gentil: I beg your pardon Madame, and thank you, that's kind of you.  
♪__Ma foi: Upon my faith  
__Nous Verrons: We shall see

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**_**Review Responses: ** Thank you so much for reviewing, my gorgeous reviewers! I bequeath bountiful cyber cheesecake to you all. 


	3. Cold Shoulder

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Chapter Three: Cold Shoulder

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**Mme. Giry**

The whole affair was a bit of a mystery.

And being mystified was not a sensation I often experienced. Or enjoyed.

As the Castillo coach rumbled away from my home, I tried to piece together the unusual circumstances of the morning, hoping to find an over looked clue. My mental reel was temporarily halted as I deftly picked my way through the stables.

The pleasant scent of hay was overpowered by the musty aroma of dung and dust. Even though it was early afternoon, I had to look carefully to see where I was walking. The cramped space had few windows, leaving the corners draped in shadow. The uncertain proportions of the hot breathed animals looming over me did little to aid my thought process. I was always uncomfortable there, in the midst of so many horses.

None of the staff at the Garnier knew the true reason I avoided the stables. Most thought me too weak of stomach to bear the odor. They had no idea. I had held my hand over mortal wounds of dying men to stem the flow of blood. I had seen horrors in those hospital wards that they could not dream of.

'A delicate stomach'. A faint smile ghosted over my lips at the thought.

Few employees had been on the staff long enough to have known that I served a short stint in the hospitals during the war. Most of those who knew no longer remembered. I had allowed the suggestion of my frail constitution to fester over the years, growing into fact. Although I disliked the idea of being thought of as inadequate in any way, this was preferable to the alternative. I did not want anyone to know that I was not avoiding the stable's fragrance, but the horses themselves.

Hardly anyone knew of my extreme aversion to the beasts. As a young woman, I had had a less than friendly encounter with a mean spirited stallion. The incident had changed my life, and left a bad taste in my mouth for the wicked creatures.

Acknowledging one of the stable boys with a slight nod and a tight lipped smile, I retreated from the whickering in the stalls. Striding down the quiet hall with purpose, the only sound to be heard was the dull snap of my boot heels on the cool marble. A gentle tickle of cold air sent an irritating shiver down my spine.

I had never been fond of the cold. My thoughts drifted back to a warm black shawl I had seen only yesterday. Perhaps I could justify the vain purchase, just this once. After all, I would be spending a greater portion of my time in the maze of the backstage corridors, supervising all the dance practices on stage.

A dull echo of sorrow reminded me of how just how much of missed Celine. And how alone I felt without her hand to help me along. Mme. Lensan's warm personality had always seemed a bit out of place in here during the chilly winter rehearsals. This was my first winter truly wearing the title of Maitre de Corps, having shared the role with my mentor for seven years.

It had been five months since I had had a partner to lean on, to share the responsibilities of overseeing the corps. A small part of me was still doubtful of my ability to fill the hole she had left in at the Opera Garnier.

Many of the girls continued to show me less respect than they had my predecessor. I wished to honor her memory and make her proud, but I silently feared that I would never live up to her high standards. She had been a cheerful soul, always wearing a welcoming smile and offering an inviting shoulder. I, on the other hand, had always taught with a stern manner, demanding the best that my girls could give. It had taken me quite some time to understand how the girls felt about me, but now I was trying to be the mother they had lost in Celine.

Though only a few had warmed up to my approach to teaching, they all had proven themselves very gifted time and again. When I watched them from the wings on opening nights, I began to understand why my friend had had such a motherly attitude. I welled up with pride and a bond of understanding. I was eager to give them everything I could.

My newest pupil, however, had only managed to inspire irritation and despair during her preliminary visit to my school.

Despair at ever possessing the ability to teach such a lackluster child, and frustration at my own lack of understanding. The girl had obviously been well trained, but even the greatest master could only do so much. She knew the steps and the forms, but lacked the natural grace and ease of movement that characterized the rest of my girls.

I let out a sigh of frustration at my mental lapse. The child did not belong in my little troupe. I had been so determined to assert my authority to the management, and at the first sign of failure I had already mentally included her in the corps.

My frustration also stemmed from my failure to grasp her situation. I understood why M Debbine had admitted the nit. It was obvious to anyone who was willing to look past their own nose. He had thrown his heart at an unresponsive woman's feet yet again, admitting her undeserving daughter into a dance school normally reserved for the talented few. His bleeding soul had shown me exactly how much power I really had in the opera house. I abhorred the sensation of being helpless.

Helpless was one adjective not easily applied to my new student. That one knew what she wanted, I would say that for her. She had the dream of a prima, and the spirit to match it. She was a regular spitfire! The tiny girl had come dangerously close to lecturing my amiable employer. I would have laughed, had the situation been anything other than what it was. One glare from her mother's direction had more than served to silence the child. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for Mademoiselle Castillo, despite resenting her intrusion into my world.

The elder Castillo was the true root of my lack of understanding. Why would a woman of noble birth allow her daughter to lower herself in such a manner? The opera's dance academy was about as far from an elite drawing room as one could get. The girl's reputation would be irreparably tarnished. I could only imagine what an embarrassment it would be to her family.

I knew a little about the Casa de Castillo, if only from the gleanings of upper crust gossip that were ever present in the theater. The house was headed by the young girl's grandparents, who seemed to be the very pictures of propriety. Their mansion was an extravagant building on the exclusive Rue Plummet. Though they were political exiles from Spain, the Don and Donna had found a place at the very pinnacle of Parisian society.

Their daughter, however, had only recently come to live under their roof, and little was know about her or her two children. I was struck harshly by her constantly aloof nature. It seemed as though she thought the opera house was not worthy to catch the dirt off of her heels.

Another chill reminded me of how cold my family's rooms would be, and I made a mental note to petition M Debbine for more blankets in the dormitories. Humming to myself softly, I decided I would indeed purchase the black shawl tomorrow.

But despite my matronly contemplations, I couldn't help but wonder about the conversation that must have been taking place in that stately carriage.

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Leah

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The ride home was silent, as always.

The animated hustle of the large city streets gradually gave way to the rhythm of horse hooves and the dull whisper of a February afternoon. The sun shone with a brilliant white glare off of the pristine snowfall that remained from the early morning, vainly endeavoring to keep its head above the horizon. The soft dusk faithfully took the upper hand, sending predictable tendrils of shadow out to paint the sky.

Poignantly chilled air began to slink into the carriage. Despite their normal strength and stamina, my legs quickly began to appreciate the temperature change and the grueling gauntlet they had so recently run. As each imposing residence grew small behind us, I grew more eager to be home.

Night time in my grandparents' estate played host to what seemed a nearly constant stream of galas, balls, and feasts. As I was not yet sixteen, I would spend another of many nights creeping down through the servants' stairway to see the grand spectacles there.

I drank up the sights and sounds as though I were dying of thirst. The dashing young men, the twirling gowns, and the music. The drugging palette of scents and tastes, perfumes and bouquets and mouthwatering delicacies. During the liveliest dances, it was easy to imagine that the hall was filled with Abuela's delicate hothouse flowers instead of nervous youths and tipsy couples. I could have spent my entire childhood crouched on those rough wooden steps, fading into the explosion of my senses. It was only there that I could catch real glimpses of my mother. Dancing, laughing, and even singing, Mama became another woman when she crossed the threshold of our grand hall.

I suppose the intense quiet in the coach would have been uncomfortable if it had been shared by any one else. My mother, however, had never truly been the talkative sort. At least in my presence.

I had grown used to it, even learned to tolerate it with out complaint, but my young heart yearned for the approval that she carelessly threw out to every one else in her life. I simply could not comprehend why she constantly kept me at arms reach.

Don't misunderstand. Mama never hurt me. She kissed and held me, if less often than I would have liked. She grew frustrated occasionally, as I assume all mothers do, but seldom angry. When I was young, she would even read to me before I fell asleep, sometimes for hours. I learned to love books, adoring they way that they extracted me from my quiet little life and transported me to a world all their own. To this day, I can't remember any memory of her that I hold dearer.

But hen I learned to read for myself, her bed time visits suddenly stopped. Confused, I threw myself into reading with a passion, childishly believing that mastering the art would gain her approval.

But she had never returned.

So I had turned to other pursuits to fill my lonely heart. Fencing with my brother had been a way to be nearer to him. Fencing was his favorite pastime. It consumed a great deal of his time, whether in the privacy of my Abuelo's home or in the competitive atmosphere of a gentleman's fencing hall. Despite the fact that it was very unbecoming for a young lady, I had insisted that he teach me, if only to spend more time in his company. He had even allowed me to occasionally accompany him to one of the halls, provided that I keep my fencing mask on at all times. He wasn't about to be seen sneaking in his little half-sister!

With Abuelo, it had been conversation. He was an extremely intelligent man, and would often entertain his friends for hours in his study. The group of grey-haired intellectuals would discus politics, science, philosophy, religion, and current affairs. They had heated arguments, good natured laughter, and smoky pipes tucked firmly between their wrinkled lips.

Eager to participate, I had wormed my way through his library and listened to their conversations. I picked up every word they said from outside the door until I was confident enough to quietly interject one day. Looking back, I had been terribly rude, interrupting as I did. But Grandfather and his kindly old cronies had found it amusing that a little girl should like to listen to them and their 'toothless rambling'. They had welcomed me in to their afternoon get-togethers and I had soaked up their wisdom like a sponge, learning the art of debate and eventually matching them contention for contention.

To win my Abuela's affection, I had learned to embroider. Though I disliked the repetitive, mind-numbing exercise, she spent many quiet hours at her own needle work. Despite my aversion to the art itself, the time I spent with her in the sunny calm of the bright parlor was comforting and pleasant.

Only Mama shut me away from her company.

To be frank, she rarely showed much emotion around me at all, persistently cool. It was as if I were merely a stranger who walked in on the intimate conversations of her private life. I never knew what she wanted from me. I spent many long hours in prayer to a god I only half believed to exist, explaining my frustration. Hoping beyond hope that there was some way to make her love me back. After all, I reasoned, love must be expressed by spending time with the ones you care for.

While I had not yet come across the expression, I truly would have 'sold my soul' for her brilliant smile to grace our interactions.

A quick glance in her direction confirmed the inevitable. She was not smiling. Not really. Her lips wore the faint vestiges of a content expression, though its cause remained an enigma to me. In secret, I half dared to hope that I had been the cause, my earlier audition performance having incited a brief moment of motherly pride in her bosom. It was, however, more likely inspired by the affection and praises bestowed by an old flame, none other than the aforementioned M Debbine.

Oddly enough, the fellow seemed to believe himself capable of re-wooing his one time ladylove. Being accustomed to my mother's conventions regarding men, her coyly polite yet subtly dismissing tone was a routine I gave no second thought. Though I possessed a view on the subject that was far too advanced for my years, I still secretly felt badly for the man.

He had no chance at all. He was too old by ten years. He was of a lesser class. Most importantly, he was just one name in a long list for Mama. Her love life closely resembled that of one of my older and more hormonally driven cousins, Mercedes. They were both reckless, self satisfying and callous when an appreciative pair of masculine eyes caught their fancy.

As a rule, I found it easiest to simply keep a healthy distance from my mother's suitors. Sensitive by nature, I often longed for a father. A strong, tall figure who would cause Mama's face light up when she took her place beside him at our cherry wood table for breakfast. Who would let me sit on his lap and tell me stories of far off lands, enchanted maidens, and daring sword fights. Who would teach me the waltz, (One of the few dances I didn't know). Someone to show me affection the way that any other parent would.

After fifteen years of frustration, of hoping that each new man would stay, I resigned myself to a life with out a father's love. My fragile, flighty tendencies of thought eventually became too difficult to continue. In the short span of my life, I had stumbled upon a blatant fact that many of the wisest people rarely seem to discover:

Some dreams are simply impossible.

That's not to say I didn't believe in my goals, my hopes. If I had gone so far as to give up on everything, my glowing triumph of the afternoon would not have shone so brightly in my heart. I simply had learned to make peace with the fact that my dreams of an idyllic family scene were as unlikely as my Abuela developing a sudden interest in playing the bagpipes.

Attempting to cope with something so difficult, I found the least painful route to walk in the maze of my mother's casual approach to relationships. With all the will I had inside my juvenile heart, I severed my emotions from anyone new.

Oh, I made a few friends (though most of my peers were loath to seek me out). But I always kept a scrap of the tense, stinging pain of loss and need nearby in my head, as an admonishment and a warning. I taught myself not to care as deeply as I once had, excluding only a vital few. Agonizingly, I hacked and split and dismembered nearly all the veins of affection that constrained my heart to contact the world around me. Turning my frustration and loneliness into a protective barrier, I deadened and silenced a desperate appetite for my idealized comforter and guardian. My father would ever remain a blurry, half imagined thought in the landscapes of my mind.

That having been considered, the odd and unprovoked sentiments of the day had truly surprised me. A tad greasy, and a touch rough around the edges, Galen Debbine was not exactly the sort of gentleman I could have imagined tying a new string around my heart, even one as simple as a few moments of sympathy. Predictably, my brilliant scheme of isolationism had failed me, thwarted by the comfortable and slightly presuming oaf who unknowingly exploited one of the few sensitive regions of my heart.

I was quick to pin the blame for the situation on Henry, as he was the most obvious target for a little misplaced mental frustration. My grudge was only momentary, as I quickly saw the absurdity of my finger pointing. I had to admit that I really couldn't blame my big brother for being sired by the amiable man, though I would have liked to. The fact that M Debbine was the father of my favorite person on earth badly hindered my attempts to ignore and shun him. At the very least, it didn't help matters a great deal.

Avoiding the tomb-like stillness of my company, my thoughts began to wind and wend down whatever random paths struck their fancy, eventually drifting in the direction of the exciting events of the morning. Even hours later, the emotionally charged scenes continued to replay in my mind…

**

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Φ**

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**Homeless- ** Thanks, from me and my guitar. 

**Priestess of Anubis- **That's an interesting screen name. I'm rather enamored with Egyptian history myself. Thanks for reviewing, and please continue. (If you keep reviewing, I'll give you cheesecake!) It's very exciting to get a new reader.

**Avid- **Yeah, it is nice to know what is going on... not that I ever really know what's going on in the real world, but at least I've got a vague idea in the written one.

**Kipper, the obedient scale flinger- ** 'Once on the lips, forever on the hips baby' I was laughing SO HARD when I read that! Can I pirate it for a line in the story? Arg, matey! And all your compliments really do make me feel lovely. I've got this inane urge to break out into a ditty from West Side Story... _ ♫_ I feel pretty, oh so pretty...


	4. Fight, Fright, and Memory

_Bag of catnip: $7.99  
New batteries: $4.35  
Laser pointer: $12.79_

_Watching my cats run in circles chasing the little red dot_:

**priceless

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**

**Φ

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**

**Chapter Four: Fight, Fright, and Memory

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**

**Leah **

I was fighting for my life.

As my attacker neared, I instinctively shifted to the left.

Sweat was dripping off my brow into my eyelashes, stinging and obscuring my vision. But I had no time to pay attention to such a trivial matter. After nearly two hours of uninterrupted combat, my brain was beginning to lose its sharp edge, leaving only enough power to continue one task. Defeat the foe.

Where my borrowed shirt was drenched in perspiration, my assailant suffered no more than a faint sheen on his face and heavy breathing. He mocked me with his resilience. I would wipe that smile off his face! All I had to do was exercise patience a little longer. He would make a mistake, and I would be ready. Step, shift, lunge, duck… With a low and frustrated grunt, he over extended his thrust. I seized my chance.

_Pivot at the waist,_

_Adjust the stance,_

_Step,_

_A flick of the wrist,_

_And my foil fell perfectly into place!_

Unfortunately, my counter attack had been anticipated. I found a small dagger at my throat. Surrendering, the blade fell from my sweaty palm. Resigning myself to defeat, I found myself the brunt of a cruel joke yet again. The victor's laughter ignited and released the aggression left over from this afternoon. I let loose.

All it took was one swift jab to his ribs.

The dagger dropped to the ground with a satisfactory clank. I whirled around to let loose the fury of my tongue. But one look at the expression on his face stopped me dead in my proverbial tracks. Gasping for air, he reminded me of the fish he had taught me to catch last summer at the lake.

I immediately dissolved into a fit of giggles.

"Ha! I drubbed you Henry! I thrashed you soundly!" I cried triumphantly in a slang that would have made Abuela positively livid, had she heard.

"Urmf… you didn't win, you cheated … you'll never beat me! Honestly Izzy…"

"Yes I will! And don't call me that!"

"Call you what, Izzy?" He asked so innocently I was tempted to laugh again. I barely kept a straight face.

"Ooo, don't make me hit you again!"

"Alright, alright, I give in! I don't dare brave the terror of your right hook!" My brother cowered in mock submission.

Our mirth was cut short by a respectful knock on the door of the fencing hall.

Frasquita entered with her characteristic quiet, marred only by a tiny grin.

"Senorita, your grandmother requests your presence in your bed chamber." She barely suppressed a chuckle as she took in my unkempt appearance. "But you may wish to change into something a bit more … presentable."

"Is everyone going to make fun of me today?" I threw up my hands playfully.

I knew that my nana was right. I must have looked a sight, dressed in one of Henry's hand me down fencing uniforms. It hung about me in billows of extra fabric, soaked in sweat. My hair was unkempt and slicked down, heavy with the results of my effort. I would most definitely have to change.

Unlike my mama, my grandmother was aware of my less that proper pursuit. But accepting my hobby and liking the fact that her granddaughter was desecrating the female ideal were two very different animals. It would be unwise to see her in my present state.

And even if I hadn't agreed with her statement, I probably would have done as she asked. Frasquita had been my nana since I was six. She was only ten years my superior, but I respected her judgment without question. She was like a second mother to me, sharing the role with my Abuela when Maman was so often absent.

"I suppose I shall need your help nana. Do you think you could smuggle me a clean …"

She merrily produced a thick blue dress from behind her back.

"My savior!"

"You are a mind reader!" cried Henry. "And I suppose that I ought to go now."

He gave me an affectionate kiss on my grimy head.

"Thank you, Henry. I was in dire need of the distraction."

"Don't you worry, Izzy. They'll come around. You'll be prima ballerina before you know it."

"Don't call me that!"

I felt a warm glow of pride as he left me to change. I _would_ confirm his faith in me. Nothing would stand in my way.

Nana deftly helped my out of the soiled smock and the tight pants. A fresh pair of stockings felt sublime on my tired legs. A loose corset and minimal under things came next. She tenderly helped me wash up before I stepped into the inviting day dress.

I tried to avoid thinking about the near future. I knew it would not be pleasant, even in the best of possibilities. Abuela was likely to have a conniption trying to dissuade me from what I wanted. I felt a pang of remorse, knowing that my choice would likely shame her. I half prayed she would understand.

Nana still wore a small smile. What did she know?

I had no time to guess. She finished my last button and gave me a little push towards the corridor, then began to pick up my objectionable clothing.

I was as ready as I would ever be.

* * *

**Φ

* * *

**

Her back was turned to me.

Quietly, I approached her with an anxious heart. I _would _go the academy, whatever the cost.

I could only hope it wouldn't be too much.

I steadied myself with a cold hand on the mahogany doorframe. Silently I waited for her to finish whatever she was doing at the end of my bed. Her dove gray hair crowned her slender frame in a gentle upsweep. She looked as though she belonged in a quaint painting. Even to my untrained eye, her long lined frame and the soft white linen of my bed made artistic contrast to the rich red paneling of my bedchamber walls.

All thought drained from my mind as my Abuela turned to me with a dignified murmur of her full buttery skirts. I set my face with a steady determination. I would need every ounce of strength that I could muster to match wills with the strong woman who moved to stand near me.

And yet…

A glimmer of amusement graced her thoughtful countenance. Few people would catch the subtle signs, but I saw the good-humored curve of the graceful creases at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps I would not need to fight today.

I was a bit confused. I had come expecting to debate in hot tones with her, expecting a stern face to great me. Instead, there was laughter in her sweet, blue-gray eyes.

A tiny shot of irritation coursed though me. Today, it seemed that every one was privy to a grand, cosmic joke that I was not let in on. I quickly dismissed the foolish emotion, waiting with baited breath to hear what Abuela would say.

I did not wait long.

"Well child, it was good of you to finally come!" She asserted with mock rebuke. "But I am glad that Frasquita managed to get you into something a bit more tolerable than those dreadful bloomers you've taken to parading around in."

A heated blush escaped my cheeks until she continued.

"I hope you don't intend to defile all my careful packing by taking any of those awful things with you."

My eyes widened as she stepped aside.

She had been carefully concealing two large trunks behind her. I could barely breathe.

"Thank you Abuela! I don't know what to say!"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll think of something." She murmured lightheartedly.

I knelt down beside them in awe. I could hardly wrap my mind around what this meant.

"Are you giving me your blessing?"

"No Lealita, that I cannot give you," Her smile faded a little, "but I am willing to let you go regardless. You know what this will mean for you, don't you?"

"Yes Abuela. I know what I'm giving up. This is my dream and I won't ever want anything else."

"Only if you are sure."

"I am."

"Then I suppose I shall have to purchase season tickets. I won't say that I can bless you for your choice, but I am glad that you have the fire in you to chase your dream."

"Besides," she brightened, "I have wanted to see the subscriber's rotunda at the Garnier for ages. Now I have a good excuse."

I beamed up at her with adoring eyes.

"I will see this through. I won't give up. I promise."

"I know bebé, I have faith in you."

She gently embraced me and I twined my fragile arms around her chest. We stood there for a few moments, crying a few silent tears in our mixed emotions. The world around just left us alone for an instant in time.

Breaking away from my grasp, Abuela gently kissed her tears into my hair and ran her hands over my face. I was as though she were trying to memorize me from the outside in, catching every eyelash and stray hair in the galleries of her memory. I put my hand atop hers, trying my best not to cry again.

When we were both still, she began to speak again.

"Before you go off to your fame and fortune, nieta, there is something I want you to have."

She searched her skirts, fishing out a small silver chain bearing a single charm.

A tiny lead key.

I had not expected a gift! I stared in disbelieving curiosity. But what an odd gift!

Merely a simple key, it was not something I would have expected my grandmother to choose. Her taste in everything tended to lean towards the ornate, while this key was unpretentious in design and material. Somehow, I found its simplicity had an odd beauty of its own.

My quizzical look had not escaped Abuela's keen eye. She gave a short laugh.

"Perhaps I ought to explain. Come, sit next to me." She patted a spot on the pale green embroidered comforter. I complied, sinking into the welcoming down of my bed.

She reverently fingered the key, as though remembering something with loving care.

"This once belonged to your great great grandmother. It has been handed down from mother to daughter ever since then. I had been meaning to give this to you on your birthday, but I think you may be a bit too busy for a celebration by May."

"I won't ever be to busy for you!"

"No, not purposefully I'm sure," she said with an indulgent smile, "but I would just as soon you have it now."

"Thank you … so much …"

I felt a choking sensation in the back of my throat.

"Well, if you're going to tear up that easily, perhaps I shouldn't give you the other half."

"Other half?"

She bent down gently, retrieving a dark object from underneath the lacey dust ruffle. Then she laid it in my lap. A beautiful ebony box, inlaid with delicate veins of ivory and light stained wood. The hinged cover was decorated with a gracefully bending sprig of lilies of the valley. The fittings were silver, fragile and clean lined. I could tell that they had been fashioned to mimic the design of the key.

I couldn't wait to see inside. Looking up, I was about to ask Abuela to help me open it when she murmured to be still.

"I want you to promise me one thing, Lealita."

"What?"

"I'm going to put this with your things," she loving took the jewelry box from my lap and laid it atop the nearest trunk, "but I want you to wait until your birthday to open it."

She smiled at the sight of my consternation. I hated to wait, and I had a cat's proverbial curiosity.

"Please, humor me just this once."

"You know I will."

"However, this part of my gift is something for you to have now."

I bowed my head as she slipped the chain around my neck. A single tear traced down a little groove in her cheek. "Whenever you look at this, you can remember how much I love you."

Looking into her caring eyes, I knew that I would never forget.

* * *

**Φ

* * *

**

I held my breath until I could be sure that I wouldn't start weeping again.

I stared vacantly the last place I had seen them. Standing there, on the cool wooden planks of the floor, each golden white from years of sand scouring. Gazing at the weathered door set in the uneven oak wall. I was trying to burn each word, every expression into my memory. I knew it would be quite a while before I would have time see my family again.

The musty smell of my grandfather's cologne and the lavender scent that was my abuela's constant shadow. Nana's quiet words of wisdom. And mama's embrace, warmer than I could ever remember. The both of us had let out a few of our pent up tears, until Mama abruptly stopped. She rubbed my back and calmed me, speaking in a stern but gentle voice.

"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."

We just stood there together, until long after everyone else had left. I would never forget how she had turned at the door and spoken so softly that I could only just hear her. Her last words would echo forever in my heart.

"Je t'aime, hija."

And then she was gone.

* * *

I had to find something to occupy the next few empty hours. 

The winter season's first opera had finished only yesterday, so the academy was as still as a tomb. Everyone had gone home for the three day break or had gone out to enjoy themselves in the city. Even my new teacher was absent, this being her day off. Restlessly, I paced the few feet of floor space in the cramped dormitory room. I could hardly keep from bumping into something with every few steps. Much of the room was taken up with furniture.

My double bed was tucked into the corner furthest from the door. A second bed of the same size and style rested its headboard on the same wall, next to the door. Every piece in the room was crafted from the same creamy butterscotch wood, including the nightstand that separated the two beds. A polished hurricane lamp was perched atop it, next to a small stack of books that must have been my roommates'. The lamp was the only light I had bothered to ignite, despite the fading radiance of the sunset. The final pieces of furniture were a graying trunk at the foot of my roommates' bed and a derelict bookcase under the window. I noted that it was filled full of books and heavy paper folders.

My eyes fell on the trunks at the foot of my own bed. In contrast to the rest of the room's furnishings, they were opulent. Encased in rich leather and tooled in gold, the deep brown boxes were a bit embarassing. I didn't want my roommates to feel awkward if they weren't as well off as I. I decided to unpack immediately.

Well, before the end of break at the very least. My stomach had begun to rumble. I pondered locating the kitchens, but was hindered by a childish secret.

I was afraid of the dark.

Not even my mother knew, only nana. I had always asked her to light a candle at my bedside before I slept. Understandably, I was a little apprehensive about going out in the dark halls of the academy by my self, but my stomach was a much stronger force than my fear. I armed myself with a small candle that was sitting on the bottom of the washstand. Lighting it with the flame of the hurricane lamp, I stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind me.

The cleaning employee who had shone me to my room had mentioned that the dormitories had their own kitchens. I had not paid much attention to her mindless chattering, being rather focused on my family at the time. Now I was beginning to wish I had.

I had no idea where I was. Doorways and intersecting hallways were everywhere, like a giant shrubbery maze I had once seen on a trip to England with my Abuelos.

Without the shrubbery.

The only sound present in the shadowy corridors was the swish of my mellow green skirts. The flickering light of my candle cast eerie shadows everywhere. I was a bit frightened by my utter aloneness, and tiny noises began to grate on my already frazzled nerves. The shifting building around me creaked faintly in the wind.

It was as though I had been transported into a passage of an Edgar Allen Poe story. To make things worse, I had the unshakeable sensation that I was no longer alone. Could it be the same watcher I had felt the day of my audition?

Without warning, I was ruthlessly jolted from my discomfort by an unmistakable sound echoing all around me:

An ear piercing scream of terror!

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**Φ**

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_**Authoress's Notes: ** I've got the music from ALW's new musical, Woman in White, stuck in my head. That's what I get for letting a friend of mine drive... Last night, I went to see my first live Profesional football game (American football, not soccer). I had a blast!_

**

* * *

Avid-** Oui, tongue is an evil word! (thank goodness for spellcheck) And of course you can have cheesecake! You deserve every sinfully-sweet, bad-for-the-hips-but-too-good-to-resist morsel. I bequeath unto thee, double chocolate chip cheesecake, so have at!


	5. The Spice of Life

**

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Chapter Five: The Spice of Life

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**

**Φ**

**

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Leah**

An ear piercing scream of terror!

I hurriedly blew out the candle and dropped it in my flight. I could only think of finding the girl who was in obvious peril. Had she been attacked by the ominous presence that had been hovering near me?

Hurtling towards the last echo of her screams in utter darkness, I collided with several walls. I didn't care. An instinct that I couldn't describe took complete control. I was driven to find her.

Just then, a pair of monstrous doors loomed before me. I rushed through them, uncertain of where I was running.

"Hello? Are you alright?" I called out with all the wind I could summon.

I was taken aback. I had no idea where I was, but my voice echoed in a vast space, fading into nothingness.

Then I caught a faint reply, from somewhere beneath me. Suddenly I was very glad I had stopped only a few feet from the doors. How far was it until the drop off?

"Ohmygawd! Sammie, did you hear that?" Came a light, crystalline voice.

That was the girl who was screaming! She didn't sound hurt! What was going on? And who on earth was "Sammie"?

"Holy Mother Mary! It's the ghost!" A squeal came from a slightly different direction.

"We're all going to die!" Said the first voice.

"Isn't the ghost a man? I thought it was a man." Another voice echoed somewhere nearer to the first.

"Who cares if it's a bushy-tailed squirrel? We're all going to die!"

"I'm too young to die!" Cried a fourth girl.

"Somebody save me!" Wailed a fifth.

A clamor of girls bemoaned their immanent deaths until they were abruptly silenced.

"Hush, you ninnies! Hello? Are you looking for us?" Answered a low, slightly raspy voice with an unusual accent.

"Um, perhaps? I heard your screaming. I thought someone was hurt."

There was a low peppering of titters and giggles from the faceless group below.

I felt like an idiot.

Not only was I completely unsure of where I was, I was yelling at the top of my lungs to a strange bunch of girls in utter darkness. And how could someplace so large not have any windows? It was barely 6:30 in the evening, but I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.

"Oh! No, no one is hurt. We were playing a game." It was the low, sensible voice again. I heard a hint of amusement in her tone at my reaction, and a tinge of embarrassment at admitting she was playing a game.

The giggles were back in full force.

I hated to ask, but there was no other way to find out what I wanted to know. "This is going to sound a bit odd, but where are we?"

Someone began to positively shriek with laughter.

How dare they! They must be chorus girls or ballet rats. Did they know who they were mocking? They had no right! What impertinence!

When I figured out where they were, I would give them something to scream about!

**

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****Φ****

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**

It took the girls some time to find me in the darkness of the theater proper, and by the time we met face to face, my temper had cooled noticeably.

So had my expectations of my fellow performers.

The moment they found me, I was surrounded by a giggling bunch of girls, most younger than myself. Introductions went by in a blur, and I was soon invited to dinner in the dormitory kitchens.

More than one way to skin a cat, I suppose.

Not that I would ever want to skin a cat, for I was rather fond of the creatures. But fondness was an attitude that I did not have when it came to my new acquaintances.

I thought I would find friends here. All I had found was a bunch of brainless ninnies who were an insult to ballet rats everywhere. It seemed the only topics to cross their minds were boys and parties.

The only tolerable ones in the entire group were Mademoiselles Keller and Giry. Both were older than me, but that didn't seem to make a great deal of difference to either of them.

Samantha Keller (the infamous Sammy of the little girl's cries) was the calm, rational voice who had first replied to me in the dark. She was petite, dark eyed and raven haired, with milky cream skin. She looked like a porcelain doll, but even after only a few moments' acquaintance, I knew that she was definitely not as she appeared.

I had been surprised to find out that she wasn't related to Madame Giry, as I could see pieces of the ballet mistress's personality in her fiery, no nonsense spirit. In spite of my earlier foolishness, she seemed to coolly accept my companionship.

If Samantha was a bit chilly, Bethany Giry made up for it ten times over.

The moment I met her, I felt as though I had just been wrapped in a warm embrace. Her smile was inviting, and her quiet manner was comforting, especially compared to the mindless chattering and foolish questions of all the younger girls. At first, I could not remember why she seemed so very familiar, but then it hit me.

She was the girl I had wanted to talk to on the day of my audition! Where was … there! Her little sister was trailing behind us. The little blond was a talkative child, babbling on about how much she was looking forward to dinner in the manner of any excitable eight-year old.

"…But Auntie Joanie won't be back till rehearsals are back, so Beth is cooking tonight. I think that she is…"

The elder Giry merely smiled and ruffled her little sister's blond hair. "Aunt Joanie is what we call Mme. Theed, the academy cook. She is one of our mother's best friends. She has a bit of a temper, so most of the girls are a bit wary of her, but Maman chalks it up to the fact that she has the natural spicy disposition of a red-headed Irish woman … though I'm not quite sure what she means by that…"

The kitchen door appeared as a bright rectangle of light in the darkness of the hall. What a sweet relief. I had been nervous and tense throughout our trek in the maze of black hallways. I hated the dark!

As we approached the inviting threshold, I grew curious. "Mam'selle Bethany, your sister mentioned something about you cooking this evening. What did she mean?"

"Firstly, if you are to be a member of the corps, there will be no more of this 'Mam'selle this, Mam'selle that'. You are a member of our family!" She spoke with mock sternness. "I am Beth, not Bethany, and you are Leah, no?" She smiled brilliantly, warming my heart with the sight.

"Oui, Beth."

"That is wonderful to hear, Leah. Now, as for your other question, oui, I cook meals when Mme. Theed is away. There are not many girls who remain in the dormitories during break, and cooking for them is good practice for making food for a family some day."

"You will help me, yes?"

_WHAT?_  
**

* * *

Eric

* * *

**

I was heading for my apartments when I heard heated laughter.

Intrigued, I set my new purchases on the cold floor of the dark hallway. Stepping nearer to the wall, I slipped a small tile out of its place in the kitchen wall. In a long unused corner, the tiny peephole had often provided some of my most interesting insights into the dancers in the Opera's ballet corps. I had watched them laugh and cry here, growing remotely attached to the sounds of their familiar voices. I felt almost as though I knew them.

An idiot's dream, but an unquenchable one at that.

I sometimes found myself longing to join them, even though I knew the idea to be absurd. One look at my mask and half of those silly girls would have fainted dead away, leaving the other half to scream at the top of their tiny vocal ranges. The thought made me chuckle.

I suppose it was partially due to my own propensity to amuse myself at their expense.

They were really quite amusing, always jumping at every trick in the book. Spooky noises, moving shadows, whatever caught my fancy. Life without such simple diversions would have been too quiet.

"It has been some time since we last 'played', girls." I mused quietly as I watched several of the little dancers quibble back and forth with one another while cooking. A pot of marinara sauce simmered on the stove, unwatched, beneath my lookout.

"Perhaps you would like to sample some of my cooking, as it seems that you have abandoned yours."

I had bought some spices for my own cooking earlier that afternoon, and I now saw it to be a quite fortuitous purchase. I was not much of a cook, but I appreciated good seasoning as much as any true connoisseur. Well spiced food was one of the great joys in life."

I only hoped the ballet rats would agree.

Sliding the wall panel shut, I sighed, amused and a bit lonely all at once. Picking up my bags, I traveled further into the bowels of the Opera.

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**Camille-** Of course I shall call you Camille ... but only if you will color me gray ... mmm, my name doesn't seem to work as a command nearly as well as yours does... Oh well! And as for the cliffhanger, all is fair in love, war and ... fanfiction? Sure, what the heck!

And we like you too, cause we think you are neat! Me, Leah, Eric with a 'c', and all the other little people in my head... hehe. Don't mind my twisted sense of humor, you'll get used to it if you keep reveiwing. And I hope you do keep reviewing, cause then you'll get more cheesecake! (she hands you a slice of cheesecake.) Enjoy!


	6. Sparrow

**Chapter Six: Sparrow**

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_Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  
And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father's will.  
But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.  
Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows._

_Matthew 10:29-31_

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**Leah**

There was screaming all around me.

Or was there? Wait… It was me! I was screaming? But why?

And where was I?

I found my self bolt upright in bed, clutching a linen sheet to my chest. As my vision cleared, I realized where I was. The Opera House! Of course.

But still, the nagging question of my screaming. I must have had a nightmare, because it certainly wasn't morning. The sun had just barely nudged its head out from under the warm blanket of night. It cast a weak red luminescence on everything in the room. The white towel on the washstand had turned a cheerful shade of pink. The utilitarian navy blue of the comforters seemed almost purple as they embraced the sleeping forms of my roommates.

It was only then that I realized I wasn't the only one up.

There was a small movement beside me in the bed, and a sleepy groan. A small face ventured out of the blankets.

She was so adorable! I had never had a little sister, but after the events of last night, I felt an odd bond with the lump in the blankets beside me.

I had not expected to spend my first night here working in a kitchen. I was glad none of my family had been there! Abuela would have had a coronary attack.

At first, I had only felt shame and humiliation. When I had dreamed of coming to the Opera House, I knew that it would cost me dearly. The ballet corps was not exactly a refined finishing school. Far from it. They were reputed to be more of a brothel. After my brief conversations with a small section of the troupe, I understood why.

I knew that my chances at a respectable marriage were all but dead. It had not been easy to come here knowing what I would give up. Wedding an eligible man and raising a family was the only respectable profession for an aristocratic young woman. I had lowered my social standings forever, and I would always be a blemish on my family's name. But I had made my choice.

I would be married to my dancing.

But cooking dinner? Like a common servant? At first Beth's question had stirred up emotions of outrage in my breast. And yet, she seemed so innocent about asking. And why shouldn't she? I had decided earlier to avoid the complications that would inevitably come from being too free with my full name. She couldn't know what a degrading task she was asking of me. I couldn't refuse something so innocently requested of me.

I had to admit to myself that I no longer had the right to think of myself as anything more important than any of the other dancers here. It took so much more effort than I had ever thought possible just to reply with a simple "yes". With that one word, my whole world changed.

And as much as I hated to admit it to myself, part of me began to enjoy the demeaning exercise. Beth had set me to mincing up some kind of herb. The green, leafy stuff had a beautiful foreign sounding name that rolled off of my tongue like a light sigh. As I chopped methodically, I fell into an odd rhythm with Beth as she kneaded the dough for the crusty bread. I began to enjoy the colors and smells that surrounded me: The way Beth had tucked her hair behind her ear with a floury hand, and our young companion, always full of childish jokes and foolishness.

She howled with laughter when I had been the first to taste the sauce, for Beth must have added to much spice. One taste was enough to kill several taste buds. It was terribly spicy, and my face had turned bright red while Meg had positively howled with glee.

But I heard no laughter from her now.

Little Meg was a mess, her bond hair tousled at odd angles. Her groggy eyes were only thin slits as she stared at me, scrunching up her tiny forehead as though I were a complicated riddle. I couldn't help a small giggle. Already flustered at being awakened, Meg's mood was not improved by my ridicule.

Seeking support from someone who had more experience with being a big sister, I glanced over to Beth's slightly smaller bed. To my surprise, the lump I had thought to be a sleeping body was only a pile of blankets. Turning to Meg, I couldn't contain my concern.

"Where's Beth?"

"Mrmf … go back to bed Hannah … it's Sunday, we don't have to be up yet …"

I shook the child firmly, loosing patience in my worry.

"Meg, where's your sister? She's not here!"

Growing more aware of her surroundings, she shot me a glare of pure exasperation. Pulling the blue comforter closer around herself, she mumbled to me under her breath before rolling over, taking the blankets with her.

"Erg … Leah, she's just on the roof. Go back to bed!"

"WHAT?"

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It had taken several minutes longer to rouse Meg enough to get directions to the roof. I gave up trying to discover why Beth was high above the city, for the child kept shooting me glares that could have rivaled any of Satan's minions. Only her eyes and nose had resurfaced from the deep blue sea of our quilt, muffling her reply.

Perhaps that was for the best, as some of our little chat was, shall we say, less than Christian.

Meg was obviously not a morning person.

I steeled my resolve and stepped out of the covers, despite my body's insistence against the chilly air. I immediately regretted having done so.

"Good gracious!" I thought. Robed only in my thin cream shift and pantalets, I shivered uncontrollably. Sleeveless and edged in Venetian lace, the delicate undergarment was far too light to be traipsing about in though all the empty halls of the Opera House. I snatched up a brown throw from Beth's bed and tossed it over my shoulders. With another rude grunt, Meg flipped the covers back over her head and turned to her other side.

Leaving her to her blissful dreams, I hoped that I had wakened her enough to get an accurate bearing on the direction of the roof. Three lefts, next stair on your right, …

At the top of three flights of stairs, I found my hard earned prize. Cold morning air seeped under the bottom of an old door at the end of a damp, musky corridor. Upon closer inspection, the knob was rusted, and the red paint was chipped and peeling. From somewhere beyond the door came a faint sound. Tiptoeing closer still, I pressed an ear to the splintered wood.

Singing.

The melody was sweet and low. It was remarkably different from my Abuela's light voice, yet still pleasantly comforting. A bittersweet pang of homesickness stuck in the back of my throat at the smarting memory of my grandmother's soaring coloratura. A tear came to the corner of my eye, but I bit it back, remembering my some of my mother's parting words…

"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."

Breaking the peaceful reverie of my eavesdropping, I decided it was time to find out just precisely what Beth was doing up here.

I stood up and examined the door once again, wondering how hard it would be to open it.

Expecting resistance from the questionable hinges, I threw my bony shoulder into the door.

In the split seconds before I hit the grey tiles of the rooftop, I reflected that perhaps I shouldn't have questioned those hinges with so much force. And my meditations were proved true upon impact. I glanced up, bleary eyed by the sudden burst of light. I turned my head to see an amazing sight. As I lay on my back, I could only gape in wonder.

It was a scene I could only imagine in the confines of the bible, or a storyteller's web.

The noise of my entrance had startled a vast flock of songbirds into flight. Each was outlined in contrast as I looked directly into the rising sun. Doves, sparrows, larks, every bird I could imagine, taking flight in a great swirling cloud that spiraled to the pastel heavens.

Completing the heavenly scene, Beth stood before me, her disheveled hair moving gently in the morning breeze. I could not make out the details of her person, for she appeared as a dark flat shape while the rising sun bloomed into a bright halo behind her.

Beth leaned down to take my hand.

I hastily catalogued the image away in my mind for later. What a painting that would be! If only I could get it to come out right. The way the birds dotted the sky. The dappled light of the sun rising in the east. Beth's auburn hair blowing out behind her in a halo.

But I couldn't focus on the painting I was planning. My insatiable curiosity was near exploding and the words just tumbled out without a thought as to what I was saying.

"What on earth are you doing up here?"

I wanted to strike myself. It had sounded like I was accusing her of a crime.

Thankfully, Beth chose to ignore my tone and continued helping me up. Then I caught a glimpse of the mischievous smile she was wearing. As I stood up, I could hear a quiet giggle escape her.

The familiar feelings of indignation and anger rose up inside me. Didn't she know who she was laughing at? How dare she laugh at…

I just barely caught myself before I let loose.

Nearly biting my tongue, I slowly calmed myself, trying to be objective.

"You aren't anything special anymore. You're no better than anyone else." I told myself firmly.

It took all my strength to keep that reality fixed in my mind. She didn't know who I was, and I wasn't that person anymore to begin with. So what was so funny?

I had to admit, my entrance had been less than graceful. I couldn't help the laughter I felt bubbling up in my throat. I snorted at the thought of what a sight I must have been. Beth joined me, and neither of us could stop for several minutes. Our laughter filled the chilly air, sending more disgruntled birds to join their companions in the sky.

When we ran out of breath at last, Beth took me by the hand and led me to the other side of the peak in the roof. She had laid out a small blanket on the cool slate shingles to soak up the dew. She quickly shifted the blanket's only occupants, a small stack of books, to one side and gestured for me to sit down with her. Idly fingering the spine of one of her books, I repeated my question. This time I made sure to watch my tone.

"So what are you doing up here? And what time is it anyway?"

She leaned back and pondered my questions for a minute before responding.

"Well, I came up here at about five o'clock. I'm not sure exactly how long I've been up here though. As for the other thing, I've been reading."

I rifled through the short pile beside me.

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens,

Pride and Prejudice…

"Do you come up here every morning?"

"Mmh." She answered to the affirmative, reaching over me for a thicker, leather bound volume. She flipped through it until she found a small paper bookmarker.

Then she turned to me and asked, "Do you mind if I keep reading?"

"Not at all! Would you rather I went back downstairs?"

"Not if you don't want to." She replied nonchalantly and began to pursue the next passage.

I pondered getting up for a moment, but decided against it leaning all the way back onto the blanket and rearranging the throw I had brought up so that it covered my cold feet. I laid back and quietly watched the sparse clouds grow brighter in the sky as the sun continued to rise. After a few minutes, I became rather restless and turned to watch Beth as she read.

She seemed oblivious to the outside world, completely immersed in her book. There was a faint smile on the edge of her lips and at the corners of her gray-green eyes. My curiosity was sparked, and I broke the pleasant silence before I had the time to think.

"What're you reading?"

She looked up, a bit dazed at being interrupted. I instantly regretted having spoken. Then she smiled sweetly at my inquisitiveness.

"Would you like to see?"

She scooted near to me and began to read.

_"Are not two sparrows sold for a penny?  
And not one of them will fall to the ground without your Father's will.  
But even the hairs of your head are all numbered.  
Fear not, therefore;  
You are of more value than many sparrows."_

Well! That certainly wasn't Charles Dickens.  
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Beth

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"The Bible?"

Leah looked up with such a childish kind of interest that I found myself smiling. Though she was only a year younger than me, right now she gave me a strong impression of Meg. "Odd," I mused silently, "how easy it is to shed the years instantaneously"

Or gain them.

Last night I had seen Leah perform that miracle as well.

Most of the evening had been filled with jokes and laughter. My smile widened a tad at the memory of Leah's face when she had sampled my sauce. I had thought her eyes were going to escape their sockets.

That still puzzled me. I couldn't remember having added any pepper. It was still quite humorous, regardless of the whys and hows.

But the night had latter turned to topics of a more meaningful nature. She had been curious about our family, and Meg was more than willing to share. When I had returned the question though, she had drawn in, strangely silent.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she had hugged them close to her body, closing her eyes. As she opened them again, it seemed that I watched her age a hundred years in a few seconds. Her gray irises looked cold, older than the earth.

Like something dead since the beginning of time.

Just then, Meg had burst out shouting. The crazy kid had tried some more of the sauce. By the time I turned back to Leah, she had pulled herself back to the real world, looking no older than her youthful fifteen.

As she did now.

Back in the here and now, Leah was scrutinizing my facial expressions, trying to discover why I had fallen silent in response to her question. She cocked her eyebrow at the movement of my head, wordlessly repeating her original question.

"Oui, the Bible. Do you understand what the passage means?"

"Um…yes?"

"Is that an answer or a question?" I laughed.

"Well, I suppose I should know what it means. My ab … my grandmother has been dragging me to church every Sunday since before I could remember."

"Don't you like church?" I asked inquisitively. Church had always been a refuge for me. A place where it was easy to feel near to God. I was difficult to think of his house as a boring place, although I suppose there had been more than a few instances where I had fallen asleep during services.

"Not really. I know I'm ought to enjoy being in the house of the Lord, but it's just kind of boring. I think everyone just goes because it's what you're supposed to do, not because they want to be there. Do you understand what I mean?

"Mmm, I suppose so."

"Do you mean to say that you enjoy going to church?" She asked, a bit disbelieving.

"Yes, most of the time at least. I feel very near to God there. I'm not sure how to explain it. We've had some of our best conversations there."

"Conversations? We?"

"Me and God."

There was that cocked eyebrow again.

"You talk to God? As in you hear voices or some such? Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, perfectly fine!" I giggled at the thought. "That didn't come out quite the way I intended. Perhaps I should call it prayer."

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Leah

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**"Prayer?" I queried, still rather confused. "Prayer is just memorizing passages from a prayer book. How is that talking to God? Isn't God just some bright light off in the far corners of the sky somewhere? And if He is so powerful, why would he even want to talk to us?"

Beth tilted her head to the side and gazed into the pale clouds thoughtfully before answering. It seemed that she was choosing her words carefully.

"I suppose I've always thought of God as a very good friend."

What was she talking about? A friend? What friend would be so deaf to all my years of praying?

And yet … she seemed so very convicted. Though I wanted to block out her words, I was compelled to listen.

"I talk to him the same way that I am talking to you right now." The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly as she contemplated the idea fondly. "I tell him what's on my mind. The highlights of my day, the difficulties. I ask him to help me when I need it, and thank him when he does."

"And what about when he doesn't?" I wondered. I managed not to say it out loud. I just couldn't. Beth seemed so utterly convinced that what she was saying was true. I had to admit, it did sound rather comforting. She fell silent, and now it was I who chose my words carefully. I didn't want to be indelicate about something so important to my new friend.

"But how is that a conversation? Don't you need two people for that? I suppose you could do it with one, but people tend to think you a tad insane if you start talking to people who aren't there. Do you hear voices?"

"No, I don't hear the voice of God, silly! Although it is possible. No, God does speak to me, just not audibly. This is how." She hefted her worn Bible…

Beth spent the rest of the morning explaining her philosophies to me, but the clarifications merely served to confuse me further.

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**Authoress's Notes:** Wow, the language in this chapter still really sucks, even after my vain attempts to edit it. Please don't hate me for this terribly written update, I swear that they get better eventually! And review, dearies, review! I give cheesecake… (she waves a slice of fresh cheesecake seductively under her reader's communal noses)


	7. The Walls

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Chapter Seven: Walls

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**Leah**

Beth's word ricocheted furiously inside the confines of my head.

I couldn't stop picturing the expressions of her face. Her gentle smile as she read. Her patient conviction, her complete faith and trust.

It wasn't that I was convinced. Not by any means. I couldn't bring myself to believe in this kind, compassionate picture of God that she had painted.

No, God was a myth, a fairytale to pacify small children and comfort the dying. What kind of loving God would allow my father to die? And allow my mother's spirit to go with him?

I had spent years building up walls around my heart to keep this very sort of thing from happening, in much the same way that I guarded myself from friendship and false fathers. It was too painful to keep trying to hope that God would show compassion for me and then to be constantly let down. God was only an illusion for the deluded and the happy.

Still, it _was_ a beautiful picture.

And part of me, I realized, honestly wished that I was still naive enough to believe in such a fairytale. I wanted it more than I had wanted anything in a very long time.

To say that I was confused by Beth's fait would have been a terrible understatement.

I had been ruminating over these thoughts and questions for three long, puzzling days. It seemed that nothing could deter them from continuing while I was idle, as though my mind was no longer my own. Troubling as it was, I found ways to keep busy and avoid thinking about it during the three day break.

Walking aimlessly about the corridors of my new home was my current occupation. Truthfully, my amblings were merely an excuse to think on the new life I had begun without the company of the rest of the girls in the building. Though I had gotten to know several of them and was beginning to find friendly faces in this foreign land, I was still a bit of an introvert by nature. I was finding it very difficult to let anyone close to me, for I was still very leery of rejection.

Despite my reluctance, my new roommates had proved to be the companions I had hoped for, especially Beth. She had not mentioned our conversation on the roof after that morning, seeming to sense my uncertainty and inability to express how I felt.

Disregarding my initial reactions to her beliefs, she had invited me to join her the next morning. Strangely enough, I had accepted. I don't think either of us truly expected to find me on the roof early the next day.

I'm not sure which of us was more shocked.

Still, after the initial awkwardness of my presence had worn off, I had been pleasantly surprised. We had soon settled down into an amiable silence of reading side by side on her blanket, quietly finding cheerfulness in one another's company.

Not yet ready to repeat the religious topics of the day before, I had brought a thick novel of my own. Beth had smiled and perked up an eyebrow at the sight of a new book. Acting on my gut reaction, I offered to share my small stack of books with her. Apparently, I had found a fellow bibliophile in this wispy, gently girl.

In sharing a small part of myself with her, I felt a certain degree of relief, as though my walls were beginning to sway. I was unsure if this was a good thing or not, but hesitantly began to open the doors of my soul. My first few attempts to speak to her that day left us both a bit awkward and silent. I felt exceptionally stupid, for I had no idea of what one ought to speak about when attempting to make a friend. What should I say?

Eventually, Beth steered the uncomfortable lack of conversation in the direction of one of the few things we seemed to have in common, books. After that, words had flowed easily between us. I no longer felt as though I was on unfamiliar ground.

Later that night, we traded worn copies of our favorite books like drug smugglers eager for new addictions. We conversed long into the evening about those that we had both read, and exchanged stories of others. Our reverie lasted for hours, drawing out into the early morning when we could no longer hear more sounds of our fellow dancers (or their male friends) through the paper thin walls. I was eternally grateful to my Abuela for having sent so many of my books along. She had packed quite insightfully for me, as one of my trunks was nearly jam-packed solely with books. In fact, the only other thing that had fit into the chest had been my painting supplies.

That was another reason I was wandering the halls. I was in search of an unused room to stake claim to. Meg had seen me unpacking and had seen my paints. Curiosity sparked, Meg had made a verbal assault on my person, launching into a thousand questions at once.

"Are those real paints?"

"Do you really paint? Like the artists who study us during rehearsals?"

"Can you show me how?"

I burst out laughing. She had so much energy, such an innocent enthusiasm for life. She made me feel strangely alive. It was absolutely infectious.

Responding to one question after another, we soon reached an agreement that satisfied us both. I mentioned that I was in need of a quiet place to paint, and she had been happy to tell me where to look. In return, I had gladly decided to show her what little I knew. And now I was in hot pursuit of said 'studio'.

Apparently, there were several vacant rooms scattered about the Populaire. Dormant dressing rooms, musty attics, forgotten storage chambers. Evidently, any one in the cast or the staff was given free access to the unneeded rooms, provided nothing was damaged. Meg had said that several dancers had commandeered rooms to practice in.

The sweet little girl had proved to be quite helpful in directing me to several dusty corners, but none had had enough light to paint by. I was advancing on the last of my targets, hoping to find something better suited to my needs. The door was hiding in the half light of the gloomy hallway in the upper stories of the opera house. A turn of the bronze knob opened the squealing entry.

Didn't anyone in this opera house know how to oil door hinges?

I hadn't been prepared for the intensity of the cheerful afternoon light, and I needed a few moments for my eyes to adjust from the dimness of the hallway. I hurriedly swatted away the aggressive cobwebs that hung about me, tangling in my hair. No wonder no one had ever wanted to use this room. It was filthy!

Dust motes hung suspended in the air, dangling like grainy stars in the warmth of the sparkling afternoon. I stepped further into the cluttered circular room. It was lit up by grimy porthole windows.

I knew that I would definitely need to do some extensive cleaning if I meant to use the space. Cleaning, however, was not something I had much experience in. Perhaps Meg would be willing to show me. Satisfied with my find, I left in search of my young friend.

I didn't get very far, for I soon heard Amanda and Alana.

The sound wasn't entirely pleasant, but I choose to investigate in spite of my ears' reluctance to do so. I remembered them from my first night here when Beth had introduced them to me as two of her closest companions. If I were going to learn how to be friendly with Beth, I might as well begin by getting to know her friends.

The tall twin girls were very pretty, with long, light brown hair and ruddy complexions. They were slim and well muscled from years of dancing. Their eyes captured me with the same warmth I felt in the afternoon sun, all bottled up behind sweet blues and greens that reminded me of the ocean, and their light Irish accents made their speaking voices an interesting contrast to much of the rest of the Garnier.

As I neared the door, I gave a little inward twinge, for neither had a great deal of talent. Alana played the piano, haltingly and often striking the wrong notes, while Amanda was not always on pitch.

Privately, I thought they sounded like a sick old goat that was trying to play a set of bagpipes left out to long in the rain.

Still, they did seem to be enjoying themselves.

At the sound of my foot steps, they turned around, looking more than a little embarrassed at being overheard.

"Oh dear." Groaned Amanda. "No one was supposed to be listening to that." She gave me a half-hearted grin, attempting to make the situation into a joke and failing miserably.

Alana looked as though she wanted disappear, or simply fall dead on the spot, mortified that they had been discovered. "No, we didn't think that anyone was listening…"

The uncomfortable silence returned with a vengeance.

A tiny twinkle returned to Amanda's eye after a few moments. "Guess we ought to keep to our dancing, no?"

A soft giggle escaped me.

My initial uneasiness faded away as we talked. Their candid attitude was inviting and open. Amanda was straightforward and one might even call her blunt. Alana was a bit more … shall we say … easily distracted, often gazing off into space and misplacing things, but very sweet. We walked to our rooms late that night, and they bid me fare well at my door.

"Goodnight dear!"

"Yes, we'll see you in rehearsal tomorrow!"

Their gentleness with my heart made me ache to get to know them. I felt like I had just found my long lost big sisters. Perhaps I would find a surrogate family here after all. Family… what a wonderful dream.

But could I ever learn what that word meant?

Could I willingly leave myself so vulnerable as to hope? What about my walls, and keeping my heart safe from hurting?

I wouldn't ever know if I didn't try.

And if I didn't try, I knew in my heart I would regret it.

It would not be easy to reopen my soul to caring about people so deeply again, but it was worth trying for.

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The next few weeks managed to incite almost every emotion I possessed.

Contentment, fulfillment, joy, homesickness, jealousy, anger…

And some I never even knew I had.

The only emotion that remained constant was the peace that washed over me during my time on the roof every morning. I was still rather wary of Beth's ideas about God, but she seemed to respect my opinion enough not to bring it up again. And Meg continued to amuse us all with her innocent fun and wild tales about a ghost that haunted the Opera.

I could remember having an imaginary friend when I was her age. Still, this make believe ghost of her's was a bit more realistic than anything I had ever cooked up. She went so far as to attribute every unusual happening at the Garnier to her strange 'phantom'.

Silly girl.

With a little help and a few tips from my roommates, I was spending my afternoons cleaning out the musty attic room over the Emperor's Pavilion. Nearly half the room was concealed by mounds of debris and rubbish under a thick blanket of dust.

Two weeks worth of elbow grease and several buckets of soapy lemon water later, the gleaming cedar wood floors began to emerge. And that wasn't all. The only salvageable object in the entire attic was one I never would have expected, an old (and rather battered) upright piano

At first, I couldn't wrap my head around what such instrument was doing there, much less how it had gotten there. It was far too large to have been moved through the door. Beth's mother had later informed me that the circular attic had originally been a small chorus recital room.

When the Garnier was first built, the piano had been hoisted in before the walls were finished. When a new choirmaster was hired a few years later, he requested a different room. Rumor had it that the switch was due to the fact that he was overweight and disliked the effort of ten flights of stairs.

Whatever his reasons, I was now the proud 'owner' of the lovely piano. I had never learned to play very well, but perhaps this would provide me with the chance. Alana had even said that the great black thing didn't require tuning, though I was not sure if she actually knew what she was talking about.

Alana and Amanda were also growing dearer to my heart. Besides Alana's dubious instrumental wisdom, they had even offered to help me with my dancing after a particularly embarrassing rehearsal.

It had all started with a girl named Sorelli.

She and her little flock of followers had seemed kind enough at first. Besides, Samantha was good friends with her. It seemed like every girl our age ran in Sorelli's circle … that was except for the ones who mattered most.

Beth, Amanda, Alana, and a handful of others all kept their distance from the rest of the corps, and little Meg followed suit. I had never been very good at picking up on social clues, but even I could tell the two groups were at odds. I didn't know how to ask them what the problem was.

My Grandfather had been right about me. I never would have made much of a politician.

And even though I felt a deep attachment to my new little family, I still felt obligated to be polite to mademoiselle Sorelli. My Abuela had been a stickler for etiquette, putting me through endless lessons and years of finishing school. I had to at least attempt to make the niceties.

I swallowed my fear once again and walked over to the tittering group of girls, addressing myself to Sorelli, their obvious leader.

She picked up her head and affected a superior smile, flashing her brilliant white teeth. She was only little older than Beth. Her burnished blond hair, ice white blue eyes, and pallid complexion belonged to a princess or a painting in the Louvre. No wonder she was rumored to be a favorite of the Opera's elite subscribers.

Bashful again, I couldn't remember what I had done with my tongue. She spoke up for me.

"Hello. You must be the new girl. I am Sorelli." You could hear the capital S in her voice. She was beautiful and talented. And she knew it.

I felt three inches tall.

"My name is Leah." It came out much softer than I had intended.

The smiles on the faces of her lackeys deepened. Just then, Madame Giry glided in. With a firm rap of her cane on the scuffed floor of the rehearsal hall, she silently initiated the beginning of practice. In the rush to get to my position, I nearly missed Sorelli's undertone as my back was turned.

"Look at her run. Back to talk to the other second rate dancers."

Their giggles boiled my blood.

I stood next to Beth during rehearsals.

It was one thing to insult my aptitude for ballet.

Because I had been accepted late in the season, I was relegated to an understudy role for the year. I wasn't sure if I should have been furious or grateful.

It had taken me several days of practice to admit to my self the blatantly obvious facts, but I finally admitted my defeat. I didn't even deserve my alternate position. I had always believed myself to be an excellent ballerina, that I belonged to the crème de la crème of the dance world.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

As I watched the other young women float effortlessly through the routine, I acknowledged that they all had something that I never would: grace, ease … some invisible quality that I couldn't quite name. But it was very real. The way their bodies curved as they surged from one movement to the next stirred up sharp edged envy in my heart. Now I knew that late admittance was just an excuse for keeping me in the line of understudies. So the sting of Sorelli's insult was not nearly as deeply felt as they could have been, except for her words against Beth.

The only reason that Beth was anywhere near the alternate's row was because she had injured her ankle!

In fact, Beth and Meg were some of the most amazing dancers I had ever seen. Their form was very nearly perfect. Their exquisite balance was astounding. And the twins weren't far behind, matching Sorelli turn for turn. It didn't hurt that Madame had been teaching the four of them since before they could crawl.

And now that twit thought she could insult her?

How dare she! That conniving, despicable… Several choice words came to mind to describe her.

I felt my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides. Thoughts of the best ways to hit her ran through my head.

Then a vision of Henry's face faded into my thoughts, accompanied by his laughing voice that had once attended one of our fencing lessons.

"Don't get mad Izzy! That won't get you anywhere. Where are your manners? If you want to do something about the fact that I won another match," he smiled, "you'll just have to practice more."

"Then you can get even."


	8. Possession

**

* * *

Chapter Eight: Possession

* * *

**

**Eric**

I had the harassing urge to slowly choke the life out of him.

That man, that _fool_, had tossed the precious portfolio into his wastebasket without anything more than a flip through its lovingly written pages.

Now three years of my sweat and blood lay disregarded like so much scrap paper at the bottom of a trash receptacle.

I felt my blood warm like the relentless desert sun. The muscles in my chest began to clench.

He had tossed away my music!

My life.

My music had been the one friend who had never left me. When my mother lay locked in her room, when Mitra had escaped me, when I made my first kill…the music had been there. It had comforted me, expressed the emotions I was incapable of giving voice to, given me a reason to live.

It had given me inspiration for countless pieces. Finally, I had decided that it was tantamount to a crime to hide my work away in the dusty recesses of the cellars. I had left the finished copy of my newest opera on Poligany's desk.

And that cretin had discarded it without a thought.

Images of M Poligany gasping and writhing in my vice like grip flashed before my eyes, further exciting the rage that was germinating in the hot, humid darkness of my heaving chest. I had had to force myself to flee the scene I had witnessed in the manager's office for fear of giving in to my desires.

A low growl escaped my throat.

How I longed to feel a rope slither around his throat!

I fingered the lasso in my pocket without thinking, taking a small measure of comfort from one of my few physical companions. My punjab was a reminder of a past I wished I could forget, but an old friend too.

It was a grisly reminder of just how much a monster I was.

The years I spent under the shah, back when Azadeh had still needed me, those were some of my darkest hours. The sheer number of human lives that had ended at my hands weighed down on my soul even more heavily than my harsh excuse for a face.

They still haunted my dreams, each and every one of them. Their eyes gleamed back at me from the dim crevices of my mind. Though I had long ago become used to their presence, I knew I would never be free of their clutches.

What I had done, the man I had been in Mazenderan would never leave me. The part of me that always watched his back, that looked at every shadow with suspicion. The nagging voice that had been my only friend in the palaces of India and Persia had become my tormentor in France, always whispering in my ear to be on guard. To protect myself from everything and everyone. And to be perfectly honest, I found that I agreed with it more and more often.

Perhaps that was the reason I had not discarded the harmless looking little instrument of death.

Indeed, being with out it now would have been much akin to amputating my own arm. In truth, I kept it for another reason as well. I relished in the memories of my history. I had so few tokens of all the torturous twenty seven years of my life. So little was left over from the ages of agony that I cherished the few that I still had.

There were so few things that I owned, so little that was mine.

Perhaps that was why the memories and urges of Persia still clung so close to the surface of my heart.

In the mirror room of Mazenderan, I had known what it was to truly possess something. To own it exclusively, completely. I had owned the whole world. The power was intoxicating. It was the sweetest, most tempting fruit I had ever been offered.

And once I'd had my first mouthwatering bite, I couldn't stop.

The dargoa had once called it blood lust.

The hot, impulsive way that I had stopped caring about right and wrong had been seductive. In some twisted way, it had filled the gapping hole left in my heart by the absence of a woman. Standing in the execution room, holding the windpipe of my victim in my hands, I knew them. That complete understanding, full comprehension of the essence of the prisoner's soul was oddly similar to what I imagined it would be like to know a woman. I had read widely on the subjects of love in the Shah's vast libraries, desiring to be well versed should I ever ensnare an unsuspecting bride.

I was a fool for ever entertaining even the slightest hope of a woman coming willingly into my embrace. God had far too heartless a sense of humor too ever allow that. He had the good grace to grant me the voice to seduce a woman and the mind to understand how to love her, but a visage that had wiped away any expectation of that love ever being reciprocated.

No matter how I tried, I would never be able to do anything more than beat my frustrated head against the wall of my creator's doing.

But in killing, I had found the ultimate expression of defiance against the God who had so cruelly cursed my miserable reality.

It had felt so right. I had been strong, for the first time in my life. And for the first time, I was the one who laughed at another's pain, the one with the power to do what I wished with the precious, fragile blossom of another human life.

I had held the keys to the gates of life and death.

I had been God.

Now I was reduced to a ghost who haunted damp basements and the wild imaginations of little girls.

My mind wandered to the silly ideas of the young mademoiselle Giry. The ballet rat had only caught one glimpse of me and decided that I was some demonic shade straight out of the mouth of Hades.

I chuckled quietly at the irony of the idea. She had never seen what lay behind my ebony mask, but her description of me had been frighteningly accurate. My body belonged to something dead for a hundred years.

Despite the mildly morbid nature of my reflections, I felt my mood lift ever so slightly.

Besides taking my mind off of my murderous impulses, the thought of the little dancer herself was one of the few bright spots in this dreary Parisian dungeon. I often longed to feel the warm sun of the desert on my face again, heating my chilled flesh, but I had learned in the past two years to substitute other joys for the climate of my old home.

The Opera had proved to be a nearly ideal dwelling, despite its temperatures. I was constantly surrounded by music, glorious music.

The cast and crew of the Populaire had proved to be an unexpected bonus.

Having escaped Persia, I found that I had grown accustomed to the presence of people in the royal court while I was there. Few were comfortable in my presence, and no one could have been said to have enjoyed my company, but at least they were there. I could hear their voices and smell their warm blooded bodies.

Though I hated to admit it, I had found that I needed the occasional companionship that only other people could give me. I needed to sense that I was just a little less alone, even if the people here didn't know that I was near them.

I slowly discovered a simple kind of pleasure in simply observing the daily lives of real people, people who lived in the world of the light. I felt mildly attached to them, learning who they were. Their hopes, fears, desires. I saw them laugh, cry, sing, dance, love, and hope. I knew each person in the building, most likely better than they knew themselves. Of course, some of them were more interesting than others.

Especially the ballet corps.

At first, I had hungered to hold them, caress them. They were so heart breakingly beautiful. I spent months of ravenous days and longing nights desiring to lovingly embrace one of them as she slept.

It was an amazing dream, but reality glared me starkly in the face.

I knew better than to hold out hope again for love in my twisted, monstrous life.

So I forced my pinings to lay dormant, adopting a more fatherly affection for the ballet rats. I even found my own way of 'playing' with them, just as any father would.

A grin lazily curled on my pale lips.

Slowing in my mad rush through the Opera House's winding tunnels, I decided to change course.

Right now I could use a little amusement.


	9. From My Perch in Box Five

**

* * *

Chapter Nine: From My Perch in Box Five

* * *

**

**Leah**

Every part of me screamed to stop moving.

I ignored my tired limbs and continued down the hallway with my sketch pad in tow. Roving the mezzanine level, my body and I were both impatient to find the box seat I had in mind. I scanned the doors as I passed them, looking for the right number.

There!

I studied the ornately stylized numeral five painted in gold on the dark lacquer of the door.

The hinges pushed open easily with a soft swish.

"Well, at least there's one door in this place that's oiled properly!" I thought to myself.

That was a stark contrast to most of the innumerable doors in the vast opera house. Even after nearly a month of living in the dormitories of the Garnier, there were still many unexplored avenues within its vast walls that I had never seen. My days were generally spent in only a few specific regions of the house, but I had begun to investigate when I had time. Yet as a student of the conservatory, time was a commodity that I found myself lacking, as I began to settle into the comfortable routine of a ballerina.

My mornings continued to be spent on the roof with Beth and the pale light of early sunrises. My time with her was allowing me to let down so many of my defenses in a way I had never dreamed possible. For the first time in my life, I had found someone I could count on, someone who would be there when I asked. I did not need to impress her, or win her over by adapting to her habits. I could simply enjoy her company, as she seemed to enjoy mine.

She was patient, gentle even, with the sharp, jagged pieces of my heart that I just couldn't seem to rid myself of. We read together and even sang occasionally. Neither of us possessed an exceptional amount of vocal talent, but we were not terrible either. She had even been giving me advice about the difficulties I faced each day in class and in practice, and had worked with me on my routines.

Those extra lessons were a true 'God send', as Beth so often liked to put it, for warm ups and classes came as soon as we could gobbled down our breakfasts.

Formal classes began at seven o'clock every morning without fail. I had been placed in a less advanced class than many of the other girls my age, and longed for a friendly face with which to share my struggles. Mme Carvarlo was the good humored woman who usually taught our classes, and I slowly grew familiar with several of the other instructors of the Conservatoire de Ballet. But whomever the lessons were supervised by, they were always demanding and difficult, leaving us physically and mentally exhausted by our noon break.

The afternoons were a short, but appreciated pause in our hectic days. While most of the girls went shopping or practiced, I spent a great deal of my time in the attic with my paints and brushes. It had taken me several weeks to complete the painting of Beth on the roof to my mild satisfaction, but then again I was rarely happy with anything I managed to produce.

Even so, I began to grow sick of correcting its thousands of flaws, and set it aside in favor of another project.

I missed being home quite badly some days, and what I had originally intended to be an oil landscape had quickly transformed into a portrait of the women in my family: My great great grandmother, my great grandmother, my Abuela, Maman and I. The deceased women were painted from my memories of the portraits that hung in my grandparents' home. My favorite detail was one of my own invention. Strangely, it made me feel closer to them, as though I was part of something larger than myself, for I painted each of the women wearing a tiny lead key about her neck.

When Little Meg inquired after the subject matter, I often jokingly informed her that it would serve as a much needed reminder of all the strong, suborn women who had gone before me in order to deal with her tom foolery.

As I had promised in return for her help in finding a place to paint, I had begun to teach her what I knew. She often spent hours with me in the warm, sun filled rotunda attic. While seven years of lessons from a private painting instructor had failed to impregnate my clumsy fingers with any true degree of talent for the subject, I was still able to pass on the basic ideas of perspective, contrast, mediums, and countless other such things with some small measure of success.

Not knowing what else to do to begin, I had started her makeshift education with some of the earlier lessons that my instructor had first given me. She had progressed quickly, as eager to learn to paint as I was to learn during classes, and she had already completed several passable attempts at still life compositions.

Now, after a few day's search in the dustier regions of the property department, we had located an acceptable old mirror and little Meg had begun her first self portrait. True, she was not the next Da Vinci, but there was definitely an aptitude in her brush strokes. The light hearted image was done in well chosen, vibrant colors, and she had begun to grasp the idea of contrasting shadows and highlights. Watching her paint stirred up unfamiliar emotions of what I thought might be pride. It was a cozy feeling, almost a motherly sense of pleasure at seeing her talent flourish.

If only my dancing were to flourish in such a manner!

My quiet hours were ended every day at five in the afternoon by a light dinner in the dinning hall and three hours of rehearsal for the latest upcoming production. Performance was an interregnal part of an education at Academie National de Musique, and every student was involved in the production to some degree or another, though a great most singers and dancers were merely cast in the chorus or as understudies and almost all of the instrumentalists were treated the same. This practice, though shorter than our morning classes, was far more abrasive to my nerves, for while in rehearsal I had to learn alongside all of the other girls.

I was supremely happy to dance in the company of my new found friends, but there were mocking eyes in the crowd of my fellow ballerinas as well. I was far from the most talented, ranking in truth more closely with girls three and four years my junior who still slept with rag dolls at night. As Maitre de Corps, Mme. Giry often oversaw our evening practices, and I was often one of the unlucky individuals that she found fault with and upbraided in front of every one.

Though my first reaction to this harsh treatment was barely leashed fury, I soon was forced to see that the reprimands were not undeserved. I was infinitely perturbed by the fact that all my hard work, all my fervor for this art form should not be conveyed in every step.

"If only they could see me when no one was watching!" I often muttered inwardly. "Then they would understand."

On the afternoons and days of recess when no one used one of the smaller practice rooms, I often abandoned the pleasant hobby of my canvases and compositions for my real passion.

With warm blocks of sunlight streaming from the third story windows and carpeting the wooden planks of the floor, I would stretch my tense limbs and begin to fly free. As I bound my toes with lamb's wool and tied the dingy lilac ribbons of my favorite pointe shoes, I could feel familiar happiness begin to race through my veins like molten silver.

This was the one pursuit in my life that was my own. It had not been born out of a desire to please in trade for love, for in truth it was the one thing that separated me from those I loved most dearly. This was the one part of my life that I could proudly plant a flag on and claim as mine.

Since the first time I saw a ballerina –in this very opera house- at the age of five, I had been enchanted and captivated by the unspoken language that she whispered to me with every elegant curve of her performance, a language more powerful than the dry letters on a page could ever hope to be. I had begged incessantly before my family had employed my ballet instructor, but every difficulty that my dancing caused me was insignificant when compared to what it gave me in return.

By myself, I could fling every caution to the wind and dance with my heart laid bare. It was only as I moved to an unheard melody in my head that I truly felt alive, as though a veil that separated me from reality was lifted with every hushed whisper of my slippers across the old wood floor. As my lungs filled to the bursting and my heart beat a mad tempo inside my chest, lightning coursed through me and the world seemed brighter. I could forget my problems, loose my inhibitions, and let go of everything that caused me pain as I spun about in silence, drunk with the sheer elation of being human.

Yet despite the overwhelming force of my passion when I was alone, I could not seem to manage to touch that plane of existence when in the midst of a group. A tiny part of me was terrified to let anyone see the whole truth of who I was, petrified that someone might see the sheer honesty that shone from every pore of my slick skin when I let go of my fears. And thus my fever, my passion was hidden from the world, causing me frustration as I hobbled my way through the trials of being a second rate dancer.

True, I was more than eager for my first appearance on stage, but it was not the dream of an applauding audience that invoked such fierce joy inside my heart, but rather the dream of dancing well and expressing all of myself with my movement and my body.

At length, I had to admit with weary resignation that even Beth's tutelage could only do so much. While I knew I wasn't as hopeless as I had believed during my first training session, I also knew I wasn't the prima ballerina I had once dreamed of becoming. I had decided to be satisfied with just doing the best I could.

When practice ended at eight thirty, the hours before curfew were usually rather quiet.

At least in our dormitory.

Many of the other cliques in the corps got together at night and gossiped. Others tried to elude Madame Giry's watchful eye long enough to slip out with their beaus. Excursions with the opposite sex were forbidden during the week, but that didn't hinder anyone from finding creative escape plans when an attractive subscriber came along.

Though the idea of going out to a party was awfully alluring, most of my heart was very glad for my sober friends. Especially after seeing so many violent hangover reactions from the other dancers.

Beth, Amanda, Alana, Meg, and three or four other girls made up our small set. I was slowly learning how to be near to the people that mattered in my life without scheming to win their friendship. The girls were becoming more and more important to me with each passing day. I was discovering that, for the first time in what seemed like ages, there was something greater than my own existence in the world. That someone else's feelings and opinions could matter more than my own, and that I did not need to adapt myself to their interests to gain their affection.

Our nights, unlike many other's around us, were generally spent reading aloud or soaking in warm baths after particularly grueling sessions. I soaked in more than water when I was near them, soaking up their warm kindness as well during our nightly communions. Still, we were dancers in training, and it seemed that sleep could never come soon enough for any of us at the end of an exhausting day.

Or stay long enough, for that matter. It generally took me a full half an hour to become conscious after waking up, even in the brisk morning air on the roof.

I never had been much of a morning person.

With such demanding days and nights, I had never had a reason to come back to the main auditorium after my first night. I had always been too busy. But with opening night less than a week away, Madame had finally allowed the troupe into the hallowed hall itself for dress rehearsals. This Saturday would be the start of a two week production of Gluck's Orpheus et Euridice.

And to my surprise and supreme delight, I would be performing in this production. Just thinking about it brought a tiny smile to my face.

Best of all, Maman had written to tell me that everyone would be there to see my début on stage.

Faint singing from the chorus now wafted up from that same stage. The corps de ballet had been released to their dormitories nearly an hour ago, after an unusually difficult and draining rehearsal, and the only people besides myself who were present in the theater proper were those required to be there. During the past few nights of intensive rehearsals, my new little family had been too exhausted to do anything more than flop into bed like very dead fish.

I, on the other hand, always felt more alive after a long run through. Tired, sore even, but full of a restless itch that refused to allow me sleep. I leaned back and let the music soak into my tired bones. To stave off my sleeplessness, I had spent several evenings sketching the musical rehearsals.

Drawing began to grow a bit dull after a time, for the only people left on stage were a bunch of ninny witted chorus girls that looked ready to fall asleep where they stood.

The scene could not be helped, I supposed, but at least I had found the best seat in the house.

The view was perfect from my perch in box five.

* * *

**Eric**

The view was perfect from my perch in box five.

Behind the intricate carving of box five's half nude protector, I had the best seat in the house.

And tonight I had been pleasantly surprised by the quality of the music. My mind still occasionally wandered back to the disappointing events of the afternoon, but my spirits were boosted by the soothing rendition of the aria of the blessed spirit from the second scene of act two.

Resting my head back on my opulent head cushion, I closed my eyes and let the music envelope my entire being.

_♪…le riant séjour  
De la felicité.  
Nul objet ici n'enflamme l'âme,  
Une douce ivresse laisse  
Un calme heureux dans tousles sens;  
Et la sombre tristesse cesse…♫_

How I longed to find my place in those restful fields!

My reverie was rudely interrupted by the soft swish of the box door.

I immediately sat straight up and moderated my breathing. I couldn't quite see who it was. They were simply STANDING there!

Finally, the idiot found the time to grace me with his presence.

Or hers…

A slender ballerina entered, carrying a sketchbook under her arm and a small box of charcoal.

She was oddly familiar, and yet to my irritation, I couldn't place her.

Who was this girl who dared to intrude on MY BOX?

My box?

I completely disregarded the child as I began to analyze my thoughts.

Where had that come from? I didn't own anything anymore, not even my lodging or the clothing that covered me. I was a thief, a parasite of the opera. What right did I have to anything in it?

And yet, I wondered slowly … Why shouldn't it be mine?

Those idiot managers didn't know what a glorious creature they had in their power. I could make it legendary. I could make good my debts to its walls and then some.

I could have this box if I wanted!

Why shouldn't it be mine?

Why shouldn't this whole damn opera be mine?

The novelty of the scheme was luring me in like a fish to a shining hook.

My original intent of coming to the auditorium flitted away from my conscious mind. I had planed to play a trick or two with the lighting or something of that sort. But any fatherly desires to play with my 'children' had long ago evaporated in light of this new idea.

"Why shouldn't this whole damn opera be mine?" I silently repeated to myself.

And I could find no reason to deny my urge.

I could only fantasize about how sublime it would feel to wield real power again, even if I were to do so from a pit in the moldy cellar. I could own an entire theater. I could rule the meeting place of the Parisian elite.

It would be wonderful to dominate anything again, especially something as grand and influential as the Garnier.

Besides, I could run this opera far better than those two bunglers sitting in the managers' office. To be blunt, neither Debbine nor Poligany could carry a tune in a bucket, much less make critical decisions demanding musical expertise.

I decided then and there to take it upon myself to 'advise' those naive fools.

I tilted the tips of my outstretched fingers together and hunched forward in my seat subconsciously, pondering advantages and disadvantages of several plans that were already coming to life in my mind. I had taken that stooped position when deep in thought since childhood, even though it had infuriated my mother to no end. She had believed it to be bad posture, and had whipped me soundly whenever she caught me indulging in the forbidden pastime.

My mother…

It had been over twenty years since I had escaped the twisted asylum that was my father's house, and I still was unable to picture her delicate face without emotions of panic, fear, desperation, and love coating my stomach and slithering down to rot in my guts like spoiled milk.

Even a fleeting thought of the woman nearly caused me physical pain. The memories of betrayal and rejection reared their ugly heads in my mind, taunting and mercilessly provoking me to violence. Years ago, I had soothed away this pain with the empowering drug of control and domination as I killed and tortured. I had played the part of God and the sense of power that it had afforded me had temporarily numbed my more pressing emotions. During my time in Azadeh's court, I had simply indulged in killing to rid myself of this agony within, but now that my path had taken a different course I could no longer hide from my pain behind a shield of blood.

The only other focus for my attentions besides my agonizing memories was a small herd of half sleeping chorus girls. With three nights left until the season premier of Orpheus et Euridice, chorus rehearsals had dragged on even longer than those of the corps, leaving its members dead on their feet for hours after the last ballet rat had crept off to her bed.

Oh, how I longed to bring swift death to someone, to calm the tormented, ceaseless throbbing in my skull!

Anyone would do. I wanted, no, I _needed_ to feel in control of something. If I could not control the agony in my mind, perhaps the familiar sensation of holding a fragile neck in my grip would sooth away my memories.

The punjab nearly itched in my pocket beside my trembling fingers.

If only I could ensnare one of those lovely girls! I would teach them not to taunt me in my dark shadows with their beautiful bodies. I would make them pay for such irreverence! I could do what I wanted with them.

After all, I reasoned, if the opera was mine, then they were mine as well!

I ached to fling myself from my carefully concealed recess amid the private boxes. To explode onto stage and snatch up a victim. From there, the possibilities were endless.

Thousands of images flooded my mind's eye as I imagined what I might do with such a captive. All the appealing ways I could slowly cause the air to seep from her lungs. I thirsted to feel the sensation of my fingers on the dove soft skin of her throat.

As my need for blood slowly faded with the antidote of my homicidal fantasies, another longing gradually replaced its intensity. The caresses of my murderous desires swiftly became those of fleshly desire.

To stroke my imagined lover's neck with excruciating tenderness. To brush my fingertips against her body lightly in places she had never dreamed of being touched. My chest began to constrict tightly, signaling the beginning of a lonely road I had walked so many times before.

Until an unexpected sigh startled me from the seductive trance.

How had she gotten so close?

* * *

**Leah**

The scratching of my charcoal had begun its own harmony with the hushed music of Orpheus's journey into Hades until a sudden absence of music startled me.

A sparse mop of gray hair waved about wildly in the orchestra pit. Obviously Monsieur Reyer had found fault with the harp soloist again.

Honestly, that was the third time in a row!

I couldn't blame him for his perfectionism. That attention to detail was the reason that he was the conductor. Still, it was starting to wear on me. His droning, nasal tone was not pleasant under the best of circumstances. And at the moment I was feeling a bit drowsy, not improving his resonant qualities.

My attempts to end my sleeplessness were finally beginning to come to fruit, I realized.

But I was too comfortable presently to move out of the warm, red velvet nest of the well padded corner chair. I had retrieved my favorite throw from its hiding place under said chair, where I had concealed it the evening before. Now the slightly itchy wool lay on my lap, shrouding my legs. I set down my sketch pad and charcoal, being careful not to smudge my quick, gestural drawings.

"I won't go to sleep." I promised myself. "I just want to rest my eyes while I think."

I pulled the knitted blanket up around my shoulders, leaning against the sensuous carving that protruded from the wall. Resting my head against her golden thigh, I shrugged my cover into a tighter embrace. The deep folds of her tunic were shadowy and dim, illuminated only by the light of the stage. In an odd way, I was reminded of my grandmother's caring arms, even though nothing could be more different from the cold statue under my cheek.

"Honestly Leah!" I chided myself with an air of mock sternness, "That's rather pathetic. It's a statue for goodness sakes."

In that moment of decidedly strange humor, I realized for the first time just how lonely I really was.

I missed them.

I had thought that separating from my family would be easier if I simply forgot about them for the first few weeks. Now I saw in hindsight that the painful days and nights that I had spent repressing their faces had only intensified my hurt.

Even before the moist tears began to well up in my eyes, I ruthlessly quelled them. Mama's words to me had become a bit of a mantra in my moments of emptiness. Now they came nearly unbidden, echoing inside my head and chilling the hot twinges in the back of my throat.

_"Stop your crying bebé, I will see you again soon. Besides, crying is a sign of weakness. You are too strong for that."_

I stuffed all the anxiety into a far corner of my consciousness. I was too strong to give in to tears. My fists clenched in my lap without thought, strengthening my resolve to stand firm.

The voices of hell's harpies and the strong strains of orchestral music radiating from stage began to fade from the front of my mind as I eagerly thought about Saturday.

I longed to see my family and now I understood, for the first time, just how much I had given up to be here. Even at the beginning of my incredible dream of coming here to dance, I had known that it would come with a price. It seemed that fate would not allow me to exchange my destiny for a different one without some sacrifice on my part.

It was rather unusual for a young woman of my station to enroll in the National Academy to begin with. True, the corps was not the low life brothel that rumor sometimes named it. In fact, most of its members were from wealthy families, even housing a few daughters of the lesser ranking aristocracy. The dormitories housed more than a few chaperones, employed by doting parents to care for their pampered daughters as they climbed the ladder of stardom.

Yet that is not to say that opera patrons did not make frequent excursions to the backstage. On any given night, you could easily discover two or three intimate couples tucked into secluded alcoves and sheltered back doors, strategically positioned to avoid both overprotective chaperones and the formidable Madame Giry.

But whatever the reality of the average ballerina's romantic life, whatever the social status of my companions, my entrance into the corps had crossed a barrier that I could not erase. My reputation as a woman of good standings had been shattered with the first step I had taken inside the grand foyer.

This was the truth as far as Edmond Beecher was concerned at least.

Had my mother been engaged to marry nearly any other man, I would not have found myself almost disowned by my family. But Lord Beecher was not just any step-father to be. 'A stuffy English prude', my Nana had once called him under her breath, and I was eager to agree with her point of view.

From the beginning of their courtship, he had been reluctant to adopt my brother and I when he married my mother, appalled that she had conceived bastards outside of wedlock. He had actually had the gall to use that word aloud while we were present! After weeks of coaxing on my mother's part (for the poor fool was really quite besotted with her, if not with her children or her past) he had been on the verge of agreeing. That was before he learned of my upcoming theatrical pursuits.

Aparently, the British have prudish views on many things.

Dancing, for example.

When he learned of my intentions, he had staunchly refused any further mention of adopting me as an heir. He had told me that it was sinful to prance and caterwall about on stage. Sinful! And that he would never allow his good name to be connected to such humiliation.

I knew in my heart that Mama would not have accepted his proposal had it not been for his political and familial connections, and the fact that she was rather enamoured with him for some odd reason. House Beecher was powerful and influential, not only in its native England, but abroad as well. Their sway was even firm in España, and when he married my mother he would use his social clout to return my Abuelos to their rightful position in the courts of Madrid.

I also knew that my family would not have agreed to his vile arrangements if I had not urged them to do so. I was not about to ask them to sacrifice their hopeful futures for my dream. Maman cared for him deeply, and I could not deny my Abelos their chance to have a position in court again, nor could I ask Henry to give up all of his ambitions that were tied to his noble birth.

Henry had a promising future. He had joined the navy only last year, on his seventeenth birthday. Already, he was rumored to be in line for a promotion in the ranks. And the honor of his position was not the only thing that shone brightly in his life. I once heard it said that it's hard to resist a man in uniform, and it seemed that my big brother was no exception, for he was slowly courting a high born woman named Leotyne.

I could not ask him to risk his good name along with mine if it meant that he would loose all that was so important to him.

The fact that he was only my half brother never once crossed my mind. It had never mattered to me who our fathers were. Especially mine, as I had never met the man. Henry was my brother, without any conditions attached to the title.

So my choice had been clear.

If I followed my dream, my family would be a much smaller part of my life, and I would no longer be able to claim any inheritance from my mother. And I had accepted that fact. It had not been easy, but I knew that it would be what was best for us all.

And besides, I knew in my heart that even though my family would never relate to me as they once had, they would never abandon me. They would never leave me on my own, and would remain in Paris to be near me.

Little proofs of their unremitting love came flooding into my mind. The letters grandfather had written me. Abuela's careful packing and preparations for my transition. Henry's occasional visits, whenever he could avoid his naval training. Mama had even sent me a box of chocolates, my favorite treat.

I also knew that I would never be unsupported, despite the loss of the estates that would have been my inheritance. My Abuelos had set up a small account with their banker on my behalf. Discreetly, of course. It would be obtuse for them to have supported me publicly, for it would have badly endangered Henry's chances of being adopted. Regardless, the small fund would be sufficient to sustain me for many years. If I could learn to be frugal, that was.

Most dear to my heart, they would be here to see me when I took stage for the first time. Of course, I was in the last row of the largest dance scene, but I would be on stage. That was all that mattered for now.

Still, my joy at their presence at the premier only highlighted the fact that they were so often absent from my life. A storm of emotions twisted inside me. I just wanted to stop thinking about anything for a little while.

Sinking deeper into the chair, I snuggled into the cozy warmth of the blanket and returned my attention to the last half hour of the chorus rehearsal. I sighed softly, wishing that life could have been different.

Stretching sleepily, I closed my eyes in contentment and weariness.

Unbenounced to me, someone was drawing close to my resting place as I curled up nearer to my guardian statue.

* * *

_**Author's notes:**_

_♪My cat has spent the entirety of this chapter's writing attempting to get me to pet it. In the process, he has insisted on sitting on my keyboard. If there are errors in this chapter, blame it on him!_

_♫Just to be clear, the mezzanine is actually the first floor of balcony seats. The ground floor is called the orchestra level. So Leah was on the right floor of the building, she didn't magically transport herself. :D_

_♪Orpheus and Eurydice is a really beautiful opera. If you're into opera, you ought to check out the libretto!  
_  
The translation of the song (roughly):

Lovely fields so gentle and peaceful  
Where with joy is filled the air,  
Friendly domain of blessed spirits,  
Free of care.  
Though the world beyond be gray and tearful,  
Here our bond is gay and cheerful  
In timeless bliss the days go by  
While all sadness turns to gladness  
And to laughter every sigh.


	10. Uncertain Touch

**Chapter Ten: Uncertain Touch

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**Eric**

The young woman had laid her head to rest only inches from my aching fingers.

How had she gotten so close?

Did I truly care?

The deep brown of her soft hair blushed faintly in the dim lights of the stage. The gentle rippling of the soft tresses mimicked the ocean's waves. How I longed to touch it, to touch her! It would be so easy! There was a small opening in the dark recesses of the statues draped clothing; my lean wrist could slip through it with room to spare. Merely considering such an action triggered my body's reflexes, for my abdomen clenched violently, and a fire steadily grew behind my eyes, threatening to set my sockets ablaze. The very thought of a whispered caress brought a thousand longings and fears back to life within me.

All my days, it had been a shining aspiration, an inextinguishable aim that I could neither achieve nor let go of, a double edged sword of desire and terror. My cursed flesh had never been blessed with the divine sensation of another's skin upon my own, save for in the brief moments of death. No one had ever willingly given me such a gift, to be sure!

My mother was the first of many to shy away from me and my touch, and it was it at her hand that I grew to fear the touch of another. I had prayed and labored ceaselessly to somehow attain a gesture of love from her hands. As a small boy, I had done everything in my power to wrench the act from her, but none of my efforts ever came to fruition. It took nearly eleven torturous years before I was forced to admit that my dream was impossible, and to escape from that house that concealed a pale foreshadowing of hell.

I should have known that the rest of the world would be no better, but I was a naive little fool, and took my chances with the gypsies only to find myself sold in Asia to the famous De Tham. Still, I kept that dream of love, of touch, alive on a breath and a half hearted prayer through my difficult initiation into another life, even through the heartbreaking encounter with Mitra.

I had loved her the instant that I saw her, but I should have known that a monster such as I would never deserve such beauty. Despite the fear of contact that my mother had so adamantly instilled in me in my youth, Mitra's loveliness had made me want to hope again, to try again. And try I did, yet in the end I found only another heartache.

The memories, the pain that all my labors had brought me forced me to hesitate in my desire to touch this girl. I longed to with every fiber of my being. I could not bring myself to be open to so much potential agony. I was trapped in a terrible spectrum of fear and want.

Yet need and hope still fluttered within.

"She is in _your_ Opera House. You can do what ever you want." A small, sly voice whispered to me. "_She is yours_."

I could no longer contain myself.

Slowly, ever so slowly, I reached an imploring hand towards her. The heat in my skull pulsated, displaying all the erotic fantasies I had ever dared to dream of.

As I touched her, she would sigh quietly in pleasure. Then she would gently stir at my caress, wondering with delight as I emerged from the shadows. I would silently beckon her to draw near to me, and she would willingly…

A brusque bang of the box door interrupted our invented interlude, halting my fingers just centimeters from her sweet mane. She groggily lifted her head, just barely missing the brush of my glove.

Who would DARE?

This audacious intruder would pay a high price for ruining my plans. The clammy warmth in my stomach promptly rose to the cavern of my chest, fueling my anger.

Until I recognized the figure in the door.

At any other time I would have found the sight highly amusing. Her disheveled state was a definite first in my days at the Populaire. She prided herself on her well kempt appearance, taking silent strength in her impassable façade of dignity. Her hair was a tangle, pulled into a hasty braid of bronze and a peppering of gray. Her high necked woolen shift was primly covered by a serviceable robe. No wonder she was in her night things, I thought as I glanced at my pocket watch. It was nearly one in the morning.

Now I could only bite my lip and restrain my lunging anger on a chokehold leash.

Giry's wife darted in to gather my young guest with a few muted words of mild reproach for breaking curfew unaware that only her name had saved her from a painful demise.

"Child, why aren't you in bed with the rest of the girls?"

The girl sleepily blinked, trying to focus on the stern woman next to her.

"Oh, Madame!" She exclaimed guiltily. "I couldn't sleep, so I was listening to the rehe…"

"Never mind that now. Come with me to the dormitories. I need you to do something." Antoinette replied in an unusually supplicational tone that was wrought with tension and weariness.

"So she is a dancer then." I mused as I attempted once again to put a name to her face. I slowly admitted to myself that it was for the best that I had been stopped, though I hated to do so. I wanted so badly to touch, to hold, to be loved, yet I knew that I was a fool for continuing my hope. It was better this way.

Absorbed by the mystery of her retreating form and saddened by the truth, I slipped into the narrow passage that would take me near to the dormitories. While stalking my unsuspicious prey, I silently thanked the man who had made these tunnels possible. Not only had he given me the means to travel unseen in my domain, he had also saved me from making a kill tonight. Most of my thoughts, however, were focused on the back of my quarry. It seemed that ages passed during their journey to the dormitories.

At last, Antoinette stopped outside one of the bedroom doors, ending the suspense.

* * *

**Leah**

My sleepy bearings were gone in a twinkling once Madame's puzzling request had snagged the threads of my curiosity.

As we made the winding trek to the dormitory hall, I half expected her to lecture me on curfew or inform me that I had earned myself extra hours of exercise. Instead, she mutely led me to the unused room next to ours. My interest spiked, she refrained from opening the door. Turning to me, she spoke in no more than a whisper.

"Child," she began, "I have decided to place you in a new room."

A tide of questions roared inside my skull. Why? Have I done something wrong? Have I displeased her? Are Beth and Meg sick of…

They were interrupted and cut short as my instructor continued.

"A new student has been accepted to the academy tonight, and I wish for you to room with the girl."

Still mildly perturbed by my estrangement from my friends, I began to wonder just who this girl was. She must have been important to be admitted in the middle of the night. But what did that have to do with me?

"As you know, Leah, normally the entrance procedures take several days. This, however, was an unusual, and rather difficult, circumstance."

I narrowed my eyes and raised my eyebrows, trying to understand what she was telling me.

"She has just been through a very difficult loss, and I have high hopes that you will be able to comfort her and make her feel at home."

Comfort her? Make her feel at home? I had no idea how to even begin! I had never done anything like this before. Why had she chosen me? And what circumstances would push her to be so careful with this girl?

"What kind of lo…" I began without thinking.

Madame turned sharply to me, and spoke in a tone that was even more quiet.

"Her father died." She muttered. "She is an orphan now. Completely alone. She needs a shoulder to cry on."

"_Oh God!"_ I half prayed. _"What am I supposed to do? I don't even have a father. How could I possibly know what to say?"_

I desperately searched for some way to avoid Madame's plan, but she had already cracked open the door.

"Child," Mme. murmured gently, "this is your roommate, Leah."

She was uncharacteristically calm and affectionate around the large bed's sole occupant. Had I not been fixated on the girl myself, I might have laughed out loud at how strange it was to see my ballet mistress being so very motherly. She gave the girl an encouraging rub on the back, and then stood up.

And with that, she was gone.

I stood motionless in the middle of the minuscule room, unable to move any part of my body for fear of upsetting the little girl any more than she already was. I could only look at her and sense the awkward tension in the room.

My tongue had melted fast to the roof of my mouth.

She was younger than I, perhaps no older than Meg. But I couldn't be sure. She was so tiny that pinpointing any age was difficult. She was so frail that it seemed she might float away with a puff of breath, like a wispy cloud slumped over on our dark brown quilt.

Her colorless face seemed to have been drained of life, like the victim of a fairytale vampire. Her untidy hair hung limply at the sides of her face, edging her features in a frame of dark blond. Her tears had long since dried into brittle tracts on her creamy cheeks, drawing my gaze to her shy, down cast lashes and sad, lost little blue eyes. She gave a minuscule hiccup as another tear dropped off the tip of her nose, joining a puddle in her lap.

I'll never know just why it happened. Maybe Beth's compassionate attitude had finally made an impression on me. Maybe it was the gradual weakening of all my defenses. Perhaps it was because I understood what it was like to feel the absence of a father. The answer could even have been as simple as a surge of hormones. Looking back, I can't be sure.

However it was managed, the fact of the matter was that the last wall I had built to protect my heart finally came crashing down, rousing my legs from their paralyzed condition. With each quiet step closer to the bed, I became more determined to get her to stop crying.

The bed groaned at the added weight as I shifted myself onto the bed. Still unused to comforting, I felt terribly ill at ease as we continued to stare at one another in silence.

"Ahm, hello… I'm Leah."

"My name is Christine." Said the little rumpled girl with a slightly broken accent as she began to sniffle again.

"Why are you crying?"

Her little red eyes began to pucker up again, but to my relief she didn't burst out in another fit. "My papa went to heaven, but I didn't want him to."

"Oh." Well, what on earth was I to say to that?

Unfortunately, little Christine took the newest awkward silence as a cue to begin crying again. She leaned into my shoulder, clutching my chest as though I were the last threshold separating her from oblivion. A fresh shower of tears fell on the pale pink lace of my blouse. Each little sob hit me like a knife in the side, filling me with empathy, and I did the only thing I could do.

I began to cry with her.

I cried for the sorry state of the world, that someone so needed could be so easily taken from it. I cried for a little girl who would never again know what it was to feel her papa's proud smile beaming down on her.

And for the little girl who never had.

It was some time before either of us could stop, but when we did, any self consciousness was gone between us. I slowly began to cheer her up with jokes, and read to her from my favorite book, a collection of fairytales that Abuelo had given me just the year before. We passed several hours that way, reading and telling each other about the families that we missed, before falling asleep.

* * *

**Eric**

I saw them fall asleep there.

I had been unable to pull myself away from the sight of that tiny crying girl. The look in her eyes tore into the harden scabs on my soul, divulging the secrets of my past without even a spoken word. Every scar that I had bandaged with the bitterness of my life laid bleeding and raw in the harsh light of another's sorrow. For the first time in nearly twenty years, my face felt the damp strokes of tears. The loneliness of this nameless nymph faintly echoed the hurt in my twisted excuse for a childhood.

I ached to soothe away her pain. To hold her as that Leah chit did now. My previous desires for the little ballerina were all but forgotten in the wake of the friendless heart in her arms. I wanted to save her from her misery. To scale the walls of the tower of her sadness and play the charming prince to her Rapunzel.

I decided that somehow I _would_ ease her heartache.

If only I could figure out how.

* * *

_**Authoress's notes:**_

_Ok, I'm not sure if hormones had been discovered yet. So sue me._

_Yep, my Christine is not movie based when it comes to looks. I figured blond and blue eyed fit the whole Swedish immigrant idea a little better than the whole massive mop of brown curls thing. Not dissing the movie or the musical mind you, though both had their pros and cons, I always kind of thought of her as a blond. I always felt it made her a little more innocent, angelic, and/or childlike. But hey, whatever floats your boat!_

_Also, I know I ought to apologize for the really descriptive, short chapter when every one tends to tell me to get on with the plot. But I'm not going to! I like this chapter and I felt I needed it, so turnips to you! But don't take it to heart dears, next chapter will probably be another more plot focused affair._


	11. Along Came a Spider

**Chapter Eleven: Along Came a Spider

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**Leah**

Orpheus made his case before the minions of hell as I coiled a lock of hair around my finger.

Anxiety writhed inside me, driving me to my old habit of calming myself. Only a few strands of dusky colored down had escaped my severe hair style. Now I fingered them thoughtlessly, twisting them about my unsteady fingers. Hortense would have a fit, I thought absently as I watched the bright colors of the performance from my hushed scrap of floor.

The typically reserved girl had offered to help dress my hair in an unexpected surge affability. She had spent nearly an hour in labor under the hot electric bulbs that illuminated the mirrors of one of the three community dressing rooms.

I still smelled faintly of the cologne and booze that unvaryingly occupied those rooms as surely as girlish gossip. But the twittering of my fellow ballerinas during the last dress rehearsal had been forgotten long ago.

Now the air of the backstage was pervaded by the tang of sweat, nerves, and the unmistakable fragrance of grease paint. It was a thin relief to my pride that the other young women around me seemed to be faring no better.

Even 'La' Sorelli, as she had begun to title herself, was showing signs of weariness. She and several others leaned back against a dusty set piece that the stagehands had failed to remove in time for opening night. But they were not the only ones to take refuge there, I was pleased to note. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a sharp jump from the great one herself. Her abrupt expression was beyond any nominal value I could name as she barely suppressed a squeal of terror. She appeared well ready to faint until Lisset removed a tiny spider from her shoulder

"How easily the mighty have fallen." I mused with a smile. "She's not very graceful when she's thrashing around like a dying insect, now is she?"

But scene one of act two was coming quickly to a close, and I had no time to revel in my private comedy. Now only one ballet segment stood between me and the stage. Unfortunately, that portion was Sorelli's newest triumph, a short duet with Ingvar. That boy was the waking dream of every woman within a three hundred foot radius. (And to think, my tutor had once said that my trigonometry was hopeless.) I sighed, watching his toned, Finnish legs soar about the stage. He carried himself like the stunning apparition that he was, making an excellent match for the picturesque Sorelli.

"She would have been better cast as a harpy." I groused to myself in bleak jealousy.

My bitterness was cut short by the orchestral cue for my entrance.

Thought instantly fled, and my feet took up the slack. All the extra hours of practice during my sleepless nights had ingrained the routine in my recollection. Now I gave every ounce of my concentration over to the character. I fell into practiced step with the rest of the corps, reveling in the way our movements fit together like puzzle pieces. My insignificance in the grand scheme of the opera, while biting, no longer concerned me. In a breeze of tulle and pale lace, I was a spirit of another world. Gone were the nagging concerns of tired legs and an envious heart. I was exultant and free.

I was bliss in toe shoes.

Fluttering off the stage in a state of ecstasy, I supported my tingling body on a shadowy prop while listening to the next selection. Madame Jocelyne Taillon, the resident lyric soprano, filled the auditorium with the ethereal notes of the aria of the blessed spirit.

When the last bows had come and gone and I had changed into a less flimsy frock, I began to steer my numb legs towards the safe harbor of our bed room. My course should have been made in open water, as I did not remain behind with the larger number of the ballerinas to 'greet' the Populaire's younger patrons. Beth had told me which corridors to use to avoid unwanted attention. Besides, no self respecting rogue would bother to pursue a chaste ballet rat who fled from the dressing rooms.

Or so I thought.

Inwardly I cursed myself for not having a better sense of direction. Obviously I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, for an obstruction now hindered my passage through the halls. Actually, several obstructions.

In elegant evening suits.

Privately joking amongst themselves, their faces were contorted by laughter. An air of easy grace hung around them, as if they could do no wrong. And they knew it. Strangely, I found that their arrogance was almost an attractive quality. I slowed a bit to observe them as they sauntered closer, seeming not to notice my presence. My girlish heart fluttered anxiously as their faces became clearer in the dimness of the hallway. All three were _quite_ handsome.

Stalking closer, I could feel their eyes on me. The sensation was unnervingly similar to the imaginary presence I had once felt in these halls, yet these gazes held no terror for me. Until now, I had not understood why so many of the other girls were so eager to flit about with subscribers. But as they looked at me, as _he_ looked at me, I felt a pinprick of understanding. That critical observation caused an upwelling of new emotions. I felt strangely pretty, as though his approval validated my beauty.

I recognized one of them as a regular attendee of my mother's galas. My twittering heart ceased to beat flatly in my chest as I failed to breathe. I had accidentally run into him in the empty hallways of our house one night when the grand hall was full. He had been achingly polite and we had spoken briefly. I had spent several weeks afterwards thinking of him. His lean, lanky form. His rakish coal curls. And only three years my senior at that. My impressions of Rene Bouguereau from last year were still very fresh in my mind.

Would he remember me?

I was equally torn between praying he didn't and wishing he would.

My prayers eventually won out. The boys did indeed take notice of me, but it seemed that Duke Bouguereau was oblivious to ever having made my acquaintance. That little detail didn't prevent the trio from forgoing the formalities, introducing themselves with polish but hinting in a manner less than polite. The burly blond on the count's left was the first to speak up, a cool young man with a well chiseled face.

"Bonjuor, Mademoiselle." There was a strange glint in his eyes that automatically sent my defenses back to their heightened state of caution. He deftly slipped my fingertips into his cool, gloved palm and trapped them in a hot breathed kiss before I knew what was happening.

"Do I dare request a name from the lips of the lovely Mademoiselle?" He asked audaciously.

"I'm not sure Monsieur, I suppose you will have to make that choice yourself." I replied cautiously, trying to feel out his intentions.

Well, he was rather handsome… And besides, it couldn't hurt to flirt back just a little. Not every man in the backstage was looking for sex. Just most of them.

He seemed a bit surprised to meet with resistance on my part. And improbably enough, a bit amused.

"If that is the case, I suppose I shall just have to risk my pride and dare indeed." The corners of his eyes were well suited to laugh lines.

Rene and his other companion apparently decided that this was their cue to exit the stage. But not without one pass at me. I felt a spidery clutching at my skirts. I turned to see a smirk on the _dear_ count's face. How dare he… he… grope me!

I never liked him that much anyway.

But my attention was soon refocused on my new acquaintance as he muttered something less than noble under his breath.

"Please forgive my cousin. He can be a bit of an ass when the occasion presents its self."

I couldn't quell my quiet laugh. Perhaps I might enjoy his company after all. He didn't seem so bad.

"You have a lovely smile Mademoiselle."

My eyes grew round. This was a rapid change. What was he after? I was beginning to get a bit nervous.

That is until I saw an unexpected face coming towards us from the end of the hall.

Henry was most definitely his mother's son, and it had never been more evident than now. He stalked closer to us in the dim hallway that echoed with the shrill laughter of ballerinas and the low booms of their companions. He was a panther hunting in the jungle of the Populaire cloaked in his dark tailored suit. And his murderous eye was fixed on my new acquaintance.

If my brother had possessed a tail, it would have been lashing violently.

"Philippe!" He positively spat the name.

"Henry?" The young monsieur, Philippe apparently, seemed as genuinely confused as I, "What's wrong my friend?"

Henry ignored him, pushing him aside and breaking our handhold. I had not noticed that Philippe had still been clasping the stolen appendage. How sweet…

But I had no time to ponder the endearing qualities of this…Philippe, as my dear brother filled my view. He roughly grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Did he touch you Leah? Are you alright?" He all but screamed.

I was so shocked that I could not find my voice. He had NEVER been rough with me like this! Well, if you discounted fencing matches. But one look into his wide open eyes revealed his panic and worry, returning my power of speech.

"No! Henry, I am fine!" My annoyance began to build. He may very well have prevented my first kiss! "And there is no need to let the whole opera house in on our little conversation!"

"Oh…well, yes…I suppose you're right…" he stammered embarrassedly. A quiet apology could barely be made out of his unintelligible mutter that accompanied a little smile.

"Wait a moment!" Philippe interjected with obvious bewilderment, his forehead adorably distorted by all the wrinkles of a worn out bed sheet. "Henry, do you two know each other?"

It was all that either of us could do suppress the equal amounts of humor and uncertain horror. The question was so foolish that it deserved no answer, but neither of us could reveal who I had been. If anyone knew that Henry was my brother, the fact that I had left the house would do Henry little good with getting into our stepfather's good graces. For some odd reason, he actually seemed to like the man!

"Well … we used to …" I began tentatively.

"…know each other better." Henry finished for me. As an after thought, he threw a sly, implicating glance in his friend's direction. I was a bit insulted by what my hermano was hinting at, but at least it would serve as a good cover story for meeting him another day.

There was a short, ungainly silence that was only ended by Henry's quick wit. He offered me his arm, and politely asked if I would accompany him _elsewhere_ for a while. It would have been difficult not to laugh if poor Philippe did not look so downhearted at my departure. To be honest, _I_ was a little disappointed myself.

I would at least be polite I decided. Part of me still wanted to see him again. But my chance to speak was snatched away, by the object of my thought no less. Even as I was looking back at him, he caught my hand and halted our flight.

"Mademoiselle…"

"Iglesias" I replied smoothly. My invented surname.

"I will speak to you again, Mademoiselle Iglesias." He grinned uncertainly.

"Nos verrons." I replied cryptically, with a mysterious grin of my own as Henry finally succeeded in maneuvering me around the corner.

**

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**Φ**

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**The Next Morning...**

She burst into a fit of giggles.

And they were utterly infectious. The entire morning had been like this, full of quiet laughter and long hallways as we aimlessly explored our home. Everyone else was still fast asleep in the dorms, exhausted by an arduous performance last night. Only we two were awake, I because I had only been in one number and she because she had come too late in the season to be included in this production. I continued retelling my experiences of the night before to the willing audience of one elfin blond who bobbed along beside me.

"Once we got around the corner, I thought Henry was going to explode like a Chinese firecracker! You should have seen his face. He was so very red."

"What did he say?" piped Christine as we passed another intersection of hallways on the third floor.

"Oh, he just told me to be careful. He said that Philippe wasn't always _trustworthy_ around pretty girls. Then I told him that there was nothing to worry about since I wasn't a pretty girl."

"You're so silly!" She tinkled.

"Philippe sent me a note just this morning, asking to see me again." I beamed with a touch of pride, happy that such an important man might be interested in me. Christine was still too young to understand such things, but I was eager to begin courting, and Philippe seemed like as fine a boy as any to see.

"Well…" she squirmed "What did you say?"

She was nearly jumping.

"I was tempted to just say 'we shall see' again, but I couldn't do it. I said yes!"

"OOO! Really?" She squealed. "Hey, where does this door go?"

Christine always managed to find some way to keep me smiling. So full of life and inquisitiveness, it was hard for her to keep her mind on any one subject for more than a few minutes at a time. So adolescent at all times. I glanced up at the door she was referring to.

"Hmm. I'm not entirely sure. Why don't we take a look? We have two hours to left to wander around."

Yet another squeaking door.

Damn.

My grandmother's moral admonitions stirred within me violently. "I didn't say it!" I tried to defend myself to them mentally.

Outside the realm of my odd thoughts, the d … blasted … door gave way to a musty stairway.

"Up or down?" I asked her. Christine pondered this for a moment. "Down." She decided and promptly proceeded to gallop down the rough stone steps of the service stairwell, dragging me behind her.

We tripped downwards until the stairs ended at yet another … accursed … unoiled door. A faint blend of scents tickled my memory from beyond the obstruction. Musty, faded greenness … where?

"Ooh!" came little Christine's squeak. "It's a stable! Did you know there was a stable here Leah?"

"No, I suppose I didn't." I followed her voice out of the shadows and into a brighter section of the large room, mildly interested in her discovery. Abuela had never allowed me near our stables, though I had occasionally wished to get a better look at the horses. I had never even learned to ride. In light of my other less than feminine pursuits, I truly could not blame her.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Christine's unexpected expression. She was softly stroking a fat dappled mare while staring blankly at the back of her stall. Her mouth was slightly tipped up at the corners and her candy blue eyes were unfocused, as though she were lost in thought.

"What is on your mind, Christine?" I asked, raising my hand to rest on her shoulder.

"Just thinking about the smell of hay."

"The smell of hay?" I giggled.

"Mmm. I love the smell of hay. It reminds me of papa." There was a bitter sweet quality to her words as she began to tell me about how the two of them had traveled far and wide over Sweden. We sat down in the hay, and she crawled into my lap and began to finger a wisp of my hair in her chubby hands as she recalled her father's stories of little Lotte, giant, fairies, and angels.

"Angels?"

"Yes! That was one of our favorites. The angel of music."

I sat up straighter, my interest sparked.

"The angel of music, hmm?"

When Christine did not respond, I turned to see a glimmering of reflected light on her cheek.

"Oh Christine!" I murmured, taking her delicate hand in my more substantial one. "I'm sorry! I shouldn't have brought up your father."

"No, it's not that…" She sniffled. "Well, it is…but it isn't. I miss him so much. I keep thinking of his last promise to me. He said he would … he would…" She began to hiccup.

"You don't have to explain if you don't want to. I understand." I said as I pulled her closer to me. My prying nature_ did_ deeply want to know what she was mumbling about, but I wouldn't force her. She was so sad as things were.

"No, I want to tell you." She gave me a lopsided smile as she drew herself up. "The angel of music was one of our favorite stories. Papa said that the angel of music was the spirit that god sent to inspire every _really good_ artist. Musicians and painters and poets and dancers … and singers." She beamed at the fond memories, but slowly her smile faded.

"When he started to get sick, he told me those stories more. He would lock the door to his room and we would sit there. He would play his music. Sometimes he told me how much he missed Maman. We would stay up till the sunrise, just us."

"But he got worse. When Mama Valerius took him to the hospital, he made me a promise. I told him not to die. I didn't want to be alone. He said that I would never be alone, that he would send me a friend. _When he was in heaven_. He promised me the angel of music. I tried so hard to tell him. I didn't want any angel! Even the angel of music."

"I just wanted him. But he wouldn't stay."

"Tina." I could only whisper her nickname into her trembling curls as I continued to stroke her hand.

"I'm so stupid." She sobbed. "I've been waiting and hoping so hard! But no angel is coming. There is no heaven! Papa is gone and I will never see him again."

She fell apart again in the straw next to me.

"Yes there is! There is a heaven!" Inwardly I cringed upon hearing myself.

Who was I to say such a thing? I wasn't even certain if _God_ existed, much less heaven. And yet, I couldn't just leave her hanging like that. She needed reassurance in what she had clung to for so long. I wouldn't let my personal doubts deny her that.

"Even if it does, who cares? I'm not there, I'm not with him! I haven't even gone to church since he died. I can't…"

Our exchange was quickly cut short by the thump of a door at the other end of the stable.

"Hello?" A baritone voice echoed slightly around the cluttered space. "Who's in here?"

Utterly embarrassed, I quickly brushed the sweet hay from my simple tweed skirt. Checking the delicate cuffs of my chocolate blouse, I helped an unsteady Christine just as the intruder came around the corner.

And my breath proceeded to vanish.

No one thing about him was particularly stunning. A bit shy of six feet, he was well muscled and broad shouldered. His skin was tanned the color of a rich toffee, even darker than my own unattractive hues of light bronze. Once again I unconsciously lamented my olive complexion, the one part of my heritage that I was less than proud of.

His clothing continued the theme of drab browns throughout his stockings, breaches, leather vest, work shirt, and oversized cap. The hat obscured his eyes, but freckles and fistfuls of burnt straw hair stuck out at odd angle from underneath it.

And yet, something about him spoke to me.

Maybe it was his devilish grin.

When he saw us, a smirk rose up on his face. He was near the brink of laughter.

"I guess no chorus girl can resist the allure of these charming animals. I am never done chasing all of you out of here, am I?"

**

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**Eric**

"Who does that damnible boy think he is?" The question echoed about my shriveled skull.

After the initial shock of discovery had worn off, Christine and her friend warmed up to that _stable scraping_ rapidly. They seemed so at ease with him.

It should have been me down there, making the niceties and introducing myself, comforting the little girl with a foolish joke to make her smile.

Why not? Were we truly so different? We each had the same body parts. Hands, legs, a head, and the like.

Hell, we didn't even dress so very differently.

I unconsciously rolled up the sleeve of my thin cotton shirt and compared the gleaming caramel of his leather vest to the nattered burgundy of my own waistcoat. A discarded prop from one production or another, like most of my 'wardrobe'. The only thing I had not borrowed from the host I played parasite to was the obsidian mask that concealed my detestable face.

At least _my_ trousers were devoid of horse swallop.

"Damn him!" The whispered curse dripped from my sunken lips with all the poison of my wounded heart. Why was it always someone else who did what I wanted? Why did someone else always find a way to do what my heart yearned to?

I was acting the fool. What hare brained idea had caused me to believe that I could be of any use to this girl? What could _I_ possibly do to ease her pain?

Besides, who but an angel would be able to lift that kind of weight off of someone's shoulders?

An angel…

I pondered just how to comfort the child as I returned to my dark, dusty home, and wondered why I was even attempting such a foolish thing. I should have learned years ago with Azadeh that caring about people only caused pain, yet I still could not bring myself to stop trying.

Irritated by my inability to stop dillydallying with trivial things, I perched upon a more important scheme, one that had remained in its protective chrysalis for far too long. I had been plotting my little coup upon the management ever since that fateful night in the box. _My box_, I reminded myself, savoring the sweet flavor of ownership that I had missed for so long.

But despite my best attempts, I was still at a loss as to how I might go about such an endeavor. I couldn't very well just stroll into their office and demand that they turn over the keys to the theater, though the thought had crossed my mind. It would be rather simple.

I would merely discard my mask in their presence and they would think Beelzebub himself had descended upon them!

I chuckled morosely at the scene painted inside my mind. "The expressions on their faces would be priceless!" I thought drolly. I shook my head at my own ridiculousness. What would I do with out my sense of humor?

And slowly, ever so agonizingly slowly, it dawned upon me.

"Why not?" I asked myself aloud.

I had been called "Devil's Child" more than once. Demon spawn, diseased filth, damnation of God … Satan himself was little different.

Well, perhaps not that title. That was a little too strong, and brought with it a host of childhood memories that were much better left forgotten. But something sinister.

An inane grin began to materialize on my blessedly bare face, the imprisoning mask having been set aside long ago. What had Giry's twit called me? A ghost?

Besides, Polygany _was_ a superstitious little bastard.

* * *

**_Author's notes:_**

_Christita – adding ita to the end of a name is a Spanish term of endearment. It's kind of a way of saying little or baby. So therefore it roughly translates into something like little Christine, little baby, or sweetheart. (ito applies the same way to boys.) At least, I'm pretty sure about that. I picked it up when my mother and I went to Peru. We were at a church down there and all the people were SO incredibly loving. Everybody in the church is referred to as brother (hermano) so and so or sister (hermana) such and such. One of the grandmotherly women called me hermanita, so I asked one of my friends who speaks some English what it meant. She had called me little baby sister. I thought it sounded so adorable. I couldn't resist putting it in here as a little tribute to the amazing people we met there. So Leah may often refer to Christine as Christita or hermanita._

Many thanks to Allegratree, my invaluble fish (beta), for her help with the Spanish. She informed me that it would be more correct to call her Tina or (tenatively) Tinita. I do like the sound of Tinita. I rolls off the tongue and its fun to say.

_I haven't had many years of Spanish, so if any of my little inclusions are not grammatically correct, please let me know._

_Note: Eric has yet to enter into his trademark formal evening attire. That comes later. Guess how. Go on, guess!_

_I am pondering the notion that Christine, well my interpretation of Christine any how, may have ADD. Not ADHD, the hormonal disease that causes excessive hyperness, but ADD, which causes difficulty in the area of concentration. My brother has ADD, so if I do write her as having ADD, I feel that I can be fair about portraying it in a character. It's just a thought, but tell me what your reactions are to it. I want her to have a REAL personality, but I do feel that (my) Christine has a kind of spacey aspect to her personality. I wouldn't go so far as to call her ditzy, but definitely not level headed either, so I thought ADD might shine a different light on her. Please respond dearies._

_A lyric soprano is a specific type of singing voice. I know what it is, but I can't figure out how to explain it properly. I appeal to any music teachers/professionals._

_Jocelyne Taillon actually was a French mezzo around 1920 or so. I thought the name was pretty and suited the minor character._


	12. Into the Gray

**Chapter Twelve: Gray

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**Leah**

The early morning light was tinted a glacial gray by the window's veil of ice.

The sleet had begun during the final calls for places the previous afternoon. At first, the sound of the cold rain on the auditorium roof had been a light and pleasant one. Unfortunately, it had later become an annoyance, fast and just loud enough to detract from the opera.

"But watching the people on the stairs was worth it!" Christine exclaimed, nearly upsetting all my hard work for the second time in the last five minutes.

Last night's Opera goers had had quite a time getting into their various carriages. The floors and stairs of every exit had been slick with freezing rain.

More than one portly patron had found themselves in an embarrassing position on the pavement.

"You have a point." I replied, snickering at the memory. "But you must stay still! I'm going to loose hold."

Tina quickly complied, eager to see my work completed. I couldn't really blame the girl for growing a tad bit anxious. I had been plaiting her pail blond hair for nearly an hour, each complicated section comprised of four strands.

It had proven more challenging than I had originally expected, for my little hermanita seemed to continually forget that my fingers were attached to her scalp.

Over the last few weeks I had learned to tolerate her short attention span. Indeed, the only subject her juvenile mind seemed capable of fixing on for more than five minutes was that of music. And predictably, music was the next thing on her mind.

"I can't wait till next Monday!"

"Yes, the suspense is terrible. What do you think it will be?"

"Hmm…" She pondered, "I hope it's something new."

"That would be nice."

With the current performance nearing a close, a new opera was immanent. This Opera was rather unique though, as it was the anticipated selection only titled 'Management's Discretion' in the patrons' seasonal calendars. Each season, one such mysterious booking was listed. And every year, the Monsieurs Poligany and Debbine kept the name a secret until the first day of rehearsals.

Some strange notion about boosting sales.

But regardless of its origins, everyone in the Populaire was brimming with curiosity. Some of the staff even went so far as to bet on which opera would be chosen.

But despite the giddy tension around me, I could not help my drooping spirits. Orpheus et Eurydice was nearly spent, for only three nights of performance remained. Worse, closing night would be my final role on stage this season. And there were no promises made for next season either.

Tina often had poor taste in conversational topics.

But despite my grey humor, I had to paint on a bright smile for my friend. Why should she be concerned about my inadequacies when her career was bright and promising?

"Whatever it is, I know you'll be wonderful in it." I assured her. "But you'll never get onto any stage if you don't let me finish!"

"I wish today were Monday!" She pouted and squirmed, completely ignoring the later portion of my advice. "Madame said I might even get a small part!"

It stung. Despite wanting the best for her, I still wished it were me who had been promised a part. I squelched the envious sliver of sadness as I placed the final pin in her bobbing head, tamping down my emotions as I gave her a little hug.

"All done, Tinita." I masked my hurt with a bright tone. "Take a look in the mirror."

"Well, at least I'm a better actress than I am a ballerina." I thought sarcastically as she tripped merrily over to the half-length oval mirror on our white-papered wall.

She twirled around in childish glee before its ancient surface, her reflection mildly warped by the hairline cracks. I felt a small burst of pride at how beautiful she looked, each braid perfectly fixed into an elegant little coronet.

She would look adorable tonight when a select number of the understudies would be allowed to see the performance in a row of seats that had not sold. Madame had justified it as 'valuable experience', and Christine couldn't have been happier.

I only hoped she would be so happy when she saw my little surprise. I had spent all of my scanty free time creating it, stealing up to the attic space whenever I had a spare moment.

After hearing her memories of angels and her reluctance to go back to church without her father, I had fashioned a little chapel of our own in the bright room. Now a mural of angels adorned the once white plaster of its ceiling.

I had sought out Madame as soon as I had conceived my little plan, in order to obtain some sort of permission. I hadn't been about to put paint on somebody's building with out asking politely! She had listened, and when I was done she graced me with a rare smile of approval. She gave me her blessing and I had begun that night, gathering my supplies while the other girls gathered around the patrons.

My thoughts drifted to one patron in particular, and I smiled fondly at the image of his face and the memory of our last meeting. The Count had insisted that I address him only as Philippe, but in my mind he would remain _the Count_ for a little longer. Still, perhaps Wednesday evening might change that.

I had promised the Count my hand for one of the many upcoming galas this spring, a celebration of one of his relative's engagements. It was the one bright event in my future, and I waited in impatiently for its arrival. Indeed, Wednesday would prove to be an exciting day, and not just because of his invitation. As Tuesday was the final performance of Orpheus, I had planned to surprise Tina the next morning. Then I would have the rest of our short break all to myself.

Maybe the future wasn't so gray after all.

"Leah? Leah!" I was startled from my plans by Tina's piping. "Are you awake?"

"I'm sorry dear, perhaps I'm not." We shared a silent moment of wittiness. "What were you saying?"

"I asked you what you think." She held her adorable theater frock on its little wooden hanger to her chest as she spun about, waiting for my inspection. I was inadvertently reminded of her constant fidgeting under my fingers, and I responded without contemplating my words.

"I think tomorrow we are going back to spending the mornings exploring."

**

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Eric **

I had spent days agonizing over every detail of our first encounter.

And the day had finally come. Even the weather had complied, a seasonal storm of freezing rain providing a perfect backdrop. My net was laid perfectly, and the prey was due to walk into it momentarily. I had thought it rather appropriate to begin my takeover in the same place that the idea had been born.

Box Five.

My ammunition was twofold, for I would prey on his two weakest points. Superstion and guilt.

From my lushly padded seat inside the statue, I saw the dark door swing open. In came Laurent Poligany, heavy set and suspicious in his usual uniform of a gray tweed. His sausage-like fingers were crushing a piece of black lined stationary. I recognized my daring seal. He set down his oil lamp, barely illuminating half of the box, completing the eerie scene I had set. The rest of the auditorium would appear, to him at least, an inky sea of unfathomable black.

"All right, you scallywag! Come out and show yourself. Face me like a man!" He punctuated his last sentence by lightly slapping his substantial chest with one hand in a gesture of defiance.

I had expected some sort of indignant reaction to my arrogant summons, but this bordered the comical! I nearly laughed.

Composing myself, I readied my voice and summoned a skill I had not used since my days in Manderzan. I projected my voice to fill the entire auditorium, but kept the volume just above a whisper.

"I am afraid I can do neither." I hissed, using the full extent of my persuasive powers. "For you cannot see me, and I am no longer a man."

The effect was immediate. With each muttered syllable, his ruddy complexion paled, leaving a pallid gray when I finished. He resembled a ghost himself.

It was almost too good to be true. I had bet heavily on his fallacies of spiritualism, but I had never imagined it would be so easy.

"Who … whoo are you?" He stammered, as though the great white throne of judgment had just risen up before him.

"Not who …" I narrowed the focus of my voice down to a tiny point above his left shoulder and dropped it even lower.

"_What."_

He started like a nervous filly, and began to back up towards the door.

"That would be unwise." My voice emanated from the door itself. "You have many sins to pay for, and I am not the only soul who still roams the earth."

He was on the edge of tears, utterly terrified. I had him in the palm of my discolored hand.

"What do you want?" He squeaked.

"All that you owe." I allowed a few moments of disturbing silence to settle over him before I continued.

"I think that we shall start with a return of the Populaire to its rightful owner." I breathed, my tonal focus not two inches from his nose.

I opened a tiny vent just above his lamp, extinguishing all light. Even my eyes could only make out the edges of the chairs in the deepest shades of gray.

"Now about this new opera of yours…"


End file.
